erase myself and let go (start it over again)
by shineyma
Summary: Jemma leaves SHIELD and starts a new life. Some things, however, aren't so easy to leave behind.
1. the best of us

A/N: First of all, this does contain spoilers for recent episodes. Fair warning.

Second, more fair warning: Ward is a creep in this one. Like, seriously. Usually I write him a lot softer than canon, but this one? Nope. Creep.

Third, title comes from "I Don't Care" by Fall Out Boy.

I think that's it! Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review.

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><p>Jemma leaves SHIELD forever mere weeks after they settle in at the Playground.<p>

There's no single cause—nothing she can point to and say, "This did it. This is the final straw." No, it's a combination of factors. First and foremost, of course, is Fitz. The damage to his temporal lobe was both severe and permanent, and while he's improving…well, his progress is slow. And not only does her presence not help him, she actually makes him _worse_. The confession he made to her, there in that tiny box at the bottom of the ocean, has broken something between them irreparably.

Or rather, her inability to return it has.

It's not that she doesn't love Fitz, because she does. He's the other half of her brain, the Watson to her Holmes—the only person she's ever met that can match her on an intellectual level, for all that their disciplines are entirely different. Together, they're twice as smart. She does love him—as a partner, as a best friend, as a _brother_. She simply isn't _in love_ with him.

No, she saves her romantic love for a man who is wholly unworthy of it.

Grant—Ward—is another factor, of course. In more than one way, in fact. First is the guilt. The fact that she could date a man for three years, be married to him for nearly four, and never _once_ see a hint of his true nature…

He's a murderer and a liar and a traitor, and she never had the slightest clue. It keeps her up at night, wondering what could have been prevented—what she could have stopped—if only she had _seen_. If only she had questioned him, pressed a little harder about his work—could she have uncovered his secrets? It might have led to the discovery of HYDRA _years_ earlier. Thousands of lives could have been saved.

But she didn't press. She took him at his word, always. Every time he shipped out for another op, another undercover assignment, she kissed him goodbye and wished him luck and wore his ring around her neck until he returned. She wonders, now, just how many of those assignments were actually for SHIELD, and how many were for HYDRA.

Perhaps it doesn't matter. SHIELD was HYDRA and HYDRA was SHIELD and no one's loyalties are certain, not anymore.

That's another reason she leaves. She doesn't know how much of the staring—the suspicious glaring and the second guessing and the sideways looks—is her imagination. She doesn't know whether she really does get doubted every time she opens her mouth. It's irrelevant, really. She feels as though she is—as though she's been put under permanent suspicion for her failure to see her husband as the traitor he was. Is.

Whether it's real or her imagination or some combination of the two, the fact remains that she can't stand to be around the others. Not Skye, who was trained by and kidnapped and nearly murdered by him. Not Coulson, who trusted and joked with and was nearly murdered by him. Not May, who chose and fought beside and was nearly murdered by him.

Certainly not Fitz.

(And not Koenig, whose identical twin brother _she _performed a post-mortem on after _he_ killed him.)

There's too much hurt there, from what _he_ did and what _she_ didn't stop, and whether it's actually happening or all in her head, she can't stand the staring.

And, of course, there's the other thing.

The fact that he's _there_, there in the Playground, locked in a cell beneath their feet. How could she possibly sleep at night, knowing that? How could she even _close her eyes_, knowing that the monster (wearing the face of the man she loves) that haunts her nightmares is only a floor below her? How could she spend a single second of her day _not_ watching the feed, making certain that he hasn't escaped?

She can't.

Perhaps she could have survived one or two of these things. If she were only able to return Fitz's love, or if _he_ was locked away somewhere else, or if she felt less like everyone suspected her of being a traitor, as well—perhaps she could have stayed.

But everything _is _happening, together and at once, and, worse, show no signs of stopping. So she leaves.

Coulson tries, briefly, to talk her out of it. He offers her an assignment, but it's half-hearted, and he changes his mind halfway through describing it. She never even learns what it was. He doesn't trust her enough, she thinks, to send her on assignment. Better to be far away, where she can't threaten anyone—where she can't attempt to finish the job her husband started.

Of course, leaving has its own complications. Skye wiped all of their identities shortly after they left the Hub. Jemma Simmons, effectively, no longer exists. Coulson offers to have Skye draw up a new one, but Jemma can't bear to accept it. And, honestly, can't bear to stay a single moment longer. She says she'll figure something out.

She has something in mind, already. It kills her to do it—to use it—but she will. And if it causes her pain—if it only adds to the heavy weight she carries on her shoulders everywhere she goes—well. It's no less than she deserves.

x

After goodbyes, which are painful and horrible and terribly awkward, she walks three blocks from the Playground to the nearby bus station. She _knows_ she's imagining the stares here. These people—complete strangers all—are _not_ looking at her as a traitor, for leaving SHIELD, or a failure, for not stopping her husband. It's all in her head.

That doesn't make it any easier to bear.

There's a bus leaving for Miami in ten minutes, and she hurries to buy a ticket. She has several hundred dollars in cash—an unexpected gift from May, who slipped it into her hand when she hugged her goodbye (itself a very unexpected act) and refused to take it back—so the purchase is simple. It's slightly odd, though. It's the first time in weeks that she's spoken to someone outside of SHEILD. The woman's friendly smile and cheerful wish of a good day is almost off-putting.

She really does need to get away.

The choice of Miami isn't solely because it's the first bus leaving, although that's certainly a stroke of luck. No, Miami is a deliberate choice for a specific reason, and she spends the entire drive second guessing it. She makes lists in her head—pros and cons, alternative options, risk assessments—and it's entirely possible that she's speaking out loud, or at least mumbling, because the other passengers give her a wide berth.

_That_ is hardly her biggest concern, however.

The important thing is that by the time she reaches Miami, she's resolved. Instead of leaving the station or buying another ticket, she heads for the lockers. She has a key to one of them. It's on her key ring and has been for nearly three years.

Years ago, shortly after…after _Ward_ proposed, he told her about his drop boxes. They're stashes of identities and currency and weapons, located all over the world: in bus stations, in banks, and the occasional property he owns. And, once they were engaged, he added identities for her, as well. He gave her keys to a few of them, made her memorize combinations for the locks of others, and taught her the locations of several.

All of it was _just in case_. In case of what, he would never say. Something like this, she imagines—SHIELD falling, HYDRA coming out of the shadows, her real identity being burned or erased—though certainly he couldn't have predicted the exact circumstances.

Building a new life with one of these identities is most likely incredibly dangerous. Ward, of course, is locked up, but there's no telling how many HYDRA agents are still out there, nor how many of them might know about these identities. She's taking her life into her hands, here, and if someone comes looking for her she'll have no way to protect herself.

So be it.

She takes the entire duffle bag from the locker. She won't need the weapons, of course, or the explosives, and certainly not the various identities in Ward's name. But she can't dig through the whole mess here, in the middle of a bus terminal. It's far too likely to end in tears.

So she takes the whole thing. She goes outside, summons a cab, and asks for the nearest decent hotel. As the cab cuts through traffic, she digs through the bag. She takes the first driver's license she finds—Ingrid Wallace, as it happens—and tucks it into her pocket. It will do for getting a room.

And it does. She takes a room—on the second floor, as there are none available on the ground floor—and declines the offer of assistance with her luggage. Then she takes the stairs (because the lift is too small, too reminiscent of another tiny box she's been in recently) to the second floor, finds her room, and locks herself in.

Then she drops the bag by the door, crosses to the bed, and lies down on it and cries for at least an hour. It's the first time she's done so. Everything that's happened—Eric Koenig's murder, the revelation of Ward's true nature, Skye's kidnapping, chasing the Bus, being _dropped_ from the Bus, Fitz's injury—it was all so much, so fast. She never had time to catch her breath, let alone cry.

But she has the time now, so she takes it.

All of her hopes and dreams are gone. The life she built with Ward, the future she planned for—gone. The agency she dedicated her life to—effectively gone. The partnership which has defined her professional life for the last decade—irreparably broken.

She can't even take comfort in her memories, because all of them have been tainted by the truth she now knows.

She sobs into the scratchy hotel coverlet for a very long time. She's shaking uncontrollably and her heart is in her throat and more than once she thinks she might be physically sick (although, fortunately, never is). By the time she finally runs out of tears, an indeterminate amount of time later, the coverlet is soaked through and she feels strangely hollow.

She washes her face in the sink, drinks a bottle of water from the mini bar, and makes herself a solemn promise. Those are the last tears she'll be shedding over Grant Ward. Ever.

Then she gets to work planning her new life.

x

The identity she settles on is Sarah Cunningham. Sarah is from Reading, has an MSc in Chemistry from King's College London, and immigrated to America five years ago to be with her husband, Luke. _He _is an American marine, and there's not much she can do to end the marriage—lacking the sort of technical skills that would allow her to alter public record. Still, it's irrelevant. He's locked up and will, with any luck, remain so for the rest of his life. What does it matter if public record says they're married?

Sarah also happens to be certified to teach high school in _several_ states, which is something Jemma plans to take advantage of.

It's not her first choice, of course. Her _first_ choice would be to return to academia—get another PhD, perhaps, or find work in a private research lab. Unfortunately, it's not possible. Those circles are relatively small, and Jemma's is a well-known name. It's one of the side effects of being a prodigy.

Should she apply for a position _anywhere_ in academia—university, research lab, or other—there's a high chance she'll be recognized. _Too_ high a chance, honestly. And since she's currently been branded a terrorist, she just can't risk it.

So she has to think smaller.

She applies for every open chemistry teacher position in every state for which she's certified to teach. It's hardly what she wants out of life, but…well. Everything she wants is far out of reach, now. Perhaps it's time to try something new.

x

She's offered several positions, but the one she ends up accepting is in a small town in Texas. And she does mean _small_. Small enough that she's not hired as a chemistry teacher, she's hired as a _science_ teacher. Each grade is assigned to take a specific science and she's teaching _all_ of them—because ninth and tenth grade are small enough to only need one class each, while eleventh and twelfth need only two each. She's teaching IP&C, Biology, Chemistry, and Physics, and she _still_ has a free period every day.

It's a little overwhelming, but in a nice way. Planning lessons, drawing up exams, and grading papers for four different subjects should keep her plenty busy, and that's exactly what she needs, right now.

The day she signs her contract, the principal—Mrs. Fessler—asks about the fading tan line on her ring finger.

Jemma has a story prepared. In short, she plans to say that she's just out of a bitter divorce. She's concocted a tale of a dangerous, vindictive ex-husband—a tale which will not only explain her sudden desire to move to a small town in Texas out of nowhere, but will also serve to discourage the locals from pointing any strangers her way, should anyone come to town looking for her. It's an excellent story and she practiced it several times. She's ready to share it.

Unfortunately, her mouth appears to have a mind of its own, as her pre-planned story is not at all what slips out.

"I lost my husband recently," she says quietly. She rubs her thumb against the inside of her ring finger, along the base where her ring used to sit. She can't possibly wear it anymore—not when she knows what she does—but, weeks after she removed it, its absence still feels odd.

"Lost?" Mrs. Fessler asks, eyes wide with anticipatory sympathy.

"He was a marine," she says. According to the cover, it's true. But she has no idea why she says it. "He was recently killed in action."

And _that_ is nothing short of a blatant lie. Her husband is _not_ dead—and, despite everything, she hasn't the heart to wish him so. To spend the rest of his life in a cell, yes. To die, no.

It's a complete lie, and she has no idea why she tells it.

"Oh, you poor dear," Mrs. Fessler says. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," she says, and folds her hands in her lap. "It's been…difficult."

"I'm sure it has," Mrs. Fessler agrees kindly. "Is that why you moved here? I did wonder; we don't get too many visitors."

"It is," she confirms. "Our home—I just couldn't bear to live there anymore. Not without him."

Mrs. Fessler is full of sympathy and obviously very moved, and Jemma—having had a little experience with the woman during the interview process—is confident in assuming that the lie will be all over town by the next day.

And it is.

She receives sympathy everywhere she goes, and it makes her terribly uncomfortable, because she doesn't deserve it. However, she can hardly retract her story. All she can do is wait it out—eventually, she's sure, they'll lose interest.

And she still has _no idea_ why she lied. It makes no sense at all.

Still, she finds herself grateful for it. Despite her resolve not to think about anyone or anything she left behind in SHIELD, her mind often drifts towards them. All of her neighbors—who insist on having her over for dinner—and colleagues—who are assisting her in getting settled—are very understanding when she goes quiet in the middle of a sentence. She thinks that without the cover story, she would be considered quite odd by the end of her second week in town.

_With_ the cover story, she's the recipient of overwhelming kindness.

She feels horrible accepting it, but she doesn't have a choice. And it does make things better, in some ways. After weeks of mourning, which followed weeks of panic and grief, which followed months of non-stop action, it's nice to be surrounded by kindness instead of fear.

x

Of course, she arrives at the tail end of the school year. The previous science teacher is retiring, after forty-five years of teaching, and is all too happy to hand half of his classes over to her. The students are fascinated by her—Mrs. Fessler wasn't kidding about not getting many visitors, it seems—and she has to work hard to keep them on task, especially when they keep getting distracted by her accent. Or, to be more precise, her phrasing and pronunciation of certain words.

"Wait, say that again" becomes her least favorite thing to hear.

Nonetheless, she grows fond of the students, and she thinks they become fond of her. They regard her with a certain amount of bemusement—specifically, her enthusiasm for the subject matter seems to take them aback—but they joke with her in a way she remembers doing with very few professors, so she takes it as a good sign.

The school apparently offers both remedial and advanced classes over the summer, in the hopes of keeping the students out of trouble, and Jemma is asked to teach a few of them. It's for a far reduced salary—the school simply hasn't the funding for it, Mrs. Fessler explains apologetically—but she accepts at once. The last thing she wants is to be idle.

So, even after the school year ends, her days are full. She teaches classes at the high school in the mornings, assists with the classes at the junior high in the afternoons, and accepts a position as a counselor for the weekend summer camp happening at the elementary school.

It serves to integrate her into the community very effectively—soon, it becomes common for her to hear, "Hi, Mrs. C!" from children of all ages wherever she goes. She begins to recognize them _and_ their parents, and learns well in advance of her actual job starting which of the students are problem kids, which are good kids who simply don't focus well, and which are the kids who appear good but are actually serious trouble. She also learns which students will require special or careful handling, as well as the best way to go about providing said handling.

In short, it's a very effective way to spend her summer.

But that's not why she does it.

She works herself into exhaustion every day and collapses into bed late at night. Sometimes, if her day has been sufficiently busy, she sleeps peacefully and dreamlessly.

Most nights, she doesn't.

She's haunted by horrible nightmares. It's hardly surprising. There's no way to stop them and no way to avoid them, aside from being completely exhausted when she goes to bed, and even that doesn't always work. All she can do is suffer through them.

She becomes almost accustomed to them—to the sight of Fitz rotting away at the bottom of the ocean, of Eric Koenig stuffed in a vent, of the man she loves killing people with a smile. She learns to live with dreams of the accusing eyes of the dead she could have saved, if only she had _known_, staring through her.

And if sometimes she wakes, sobbing, in the middle of the night from dreams which should be _happy_—from dreams of her honeymoon, or holidays, or the many, many good memories she built up over seven years spent loving a murderer—well. It's only to be expected.

x

By the time the new school year starts, she's comfortably settled in. She knows almost all of her students by name, has a good idea of most of their personalities, and has been completely welcomed by the community.

She's not happy, not precisely. She doesn't know if that's even possible for her anymore, after everything she's lost and everything that still weighs on her shoulders. But she's certainly content.

For a little while, at least.

She's aware of Senator Christian Ward, of course. Ward—the one she married—didn't speak of his family often, but he did mention a few things. Including what his older brother did to him. How much of that was true, she couldn't possibly guess. Perhaps none of it was. Perhaps it was all a lie, intended to drum up sympathy and keep her from wanting to ever meet his family.

Regardless of how much was truth and how much wasn't, she knows who Christian Ward is. She knows it the first moment she sees him on television, raving about the threat SHIELD poses. He's a constant, unwelcome reminder of the life she left behind and the husband she lost—and she does mean constant. Every time she turns around, he's on another talk-show or news channel, speaking about the evil of SHIELD.

Any progress she was making—and she _was_ making a bit—stalls in the middle of September, when he begins making all of these appearances. It's impossible to put her husband and his various crimes out of her mind when his brother is everywhere she looks. Her nightmares, which had begun to fade, increase in severity once again.

Still, she muddles through it. Remembering the success she had with exhaustion over the summer, she buys a treadmill and starts running. Every night before she goes to bed she runs. At first just a little, then gradually, as her endurance increases, longer and longer. It does wonders to help her sleep. She still has nightmares, of course, but they begin to diminish again.

And when she does wake in the middle of the night, rather than spending the rest of the night watching mindless television, unable to sleep (which is what she _was_ doing), she runs some more. Usually, she's able to get back to sleep within the hour.

It's not _entirely_ healthy—she's lost more weight than is really advisable, and she knows very well that literally running from her problems won't help her deal with them—but it's what she needs to get through the day. By the time Halloween rolls around, she's back on an even keel.

Once again, however, it doesn't last.

x

The United Nations gets attacked by a group of men wearing the SHIELD symbol, and Senator Ward responds by telling the world that his younger brother is a HYDRA agent. Jemma, upon hearing the speech he makes—about good and evil existing side by side, and cutting evil out of one's heart, and other sound bites which are sure to be replayed on a regular basis in the last few weeks leading up to the election—is actually, physically sick. Christian swears that he'll put Grant on trial and personally see to it that he receives justice.

She doesn't know what that means for her. She doesn't know what she _wants_ it to mean. Their marriage was never actually dissolved—how could it be, with both their identities erased—which means (if her knowledge of American law serves) that she can't testify against him. The others, however, have no such…obstacle? Protection?

She tries to imagine Skye being forced to sit on the stand and recount her kidnapping—or Fitz, stumbling his way through an account of being dropped out of the Bus. _That_ would certainly make a nice sound bite for Senator Ward, wouldn't it? HYDRA agents are so evil that one attempted to murder his own wife.

Imagining all of the ways the trial could go—good and bad and every space between—keeps her up all night. Which is probably just as well; she can't imagine that any amount of running would save her from nightmares, after all of this.

x

She's oddly jumpy the next day, and more than one person notices. She tells her co-workers that she didn't sleep well and her students that she was up late watching the horror film marathon they were all talking about last week.

"Morbid curiosity," she claims. "It was a terrible mistake and I'm going to fail _all_ of you. For revenge, you understand."

"You'll thank us one day, Mrs. C.," Jeffrey Reed claims.

"For the fact that I'm going to be jumping at shadows for the next three months?" she asks dryly.

"For the _excitement_," he says. "You could use some in your life."

She thinks, privately, that she's had enough excitement to fill the lives of every student in this classroom combined.

All she says, however, is, "You sound like your mother. And I'm still not joining her book club."

The class laughs—Nancy Reed's book club is a running joke—and the topic of Jemma's jumpiness is forgotten as she gets them back to work.

x

She spends her free period in her classroom. The chaos of the past few days has her behind on her grading, and her ninth graders are starting to become antsy regarding last week's midterm. She's determined to get the grading finished by the end of the period, so she's slightly annoyed when someone knocks on the doorframe.

"Come in," she invites, without looking up.

"You look busy."

Jemma stops breathing.

She closes her eyes for a moment. Part of her thinks that the voice was just her imagination, just her mind playing tricks on her—she's been thinking of him all day, despite her best efforts, and it's entirely possible that she's simply hearing things. Perhaps when she looks up, it will be someone else: Mr. Markham, the PE teacher, who has not-so-subtly been working towards asking her on a date, or maybe Mr. Isaacson, the librarian, who often enlists her help in understanding emails from his daughter (who's studying molecular biology at university).

It's a possibility.

Slowly, reluctantly, she looks up from the exam she's marking.

It's not her mind playing tricks on her.

Ward is lounging in the doorway, arms crossed and one shoulder propped against the doorframe. He looks entirely comfortable and, somehow, not at all out-of-place.

"Hi, honey," he says, tone just this side of mocking. "Did you miss me?"

Her hand spasms around her pen. She has the absurd urge to throw it at him, but instead sets it down gently on the desk and stands.

"Not particularly," she says. Her voice is surprisingly steady, in direct contrast to the tremor in her limbs. "What are you doing here?"

"What, a guy can't drop in and see his widow at work?" he asks.

She stiffens.

"Yeah, I heard about that," he says. He pushes off the doorframe and steps into the room, kicking the door closed behind him. She flinches as it slams. "The woman at the front desk—Mrs. Taylor, was it?—was _very_ happy to tell me all about poor Mrs. Cunningham and her brave marine husband who died in combat." He shakes his head. "Moving stuff, Jem. She actually teared up. When did _you_ learn to lie?"

She swallows. "How did you get out?"

"What, no one told you?" he asks. He wanders across the room to examine the posters hanging on the far wall. "That's pretty cold. A woman's husband escapes from federal custody, you'd think she'd rate a phone call."

"Federal custody?" she echoes, confused. Then it hits her. Of course.

Christian Ward swore to put his brother on trial—publically. He could hardly do so if Ward was locked in a cell in a secret base. They must have taken him out to transfer him somewhere a little more camera-friendly, and he escaped in the process.

Ward reads the realization on her face and smirks a little.

"What can I say?" he asks. "I saw the chance and I took it." He strolls toward her desk, and Jemma takes a step back before she can stop herself.

She bumps into her chair, which rolls back a few feet, and Ward stops. He looks her over—a slow perusal that sets her skin to crawling—and frowns.

"You're afraid of me."

She stares at him, incredulous. He actually sounds _hurt_. He's faking it, of course—he must be—but that he's even bothering is beyond ridiculous.

"The last time we saw each other, you tried to _kill me_," she hisses, fear momentarily overtaken by anger. "Of course I'm frightened."

He smiles. It's a familiar smile, the indulgent one he always gave her when she enthused about her work, discussing concepts he couldn't possibly understand. The memory of it—the way he would always encourage her, egg her on in her ramblings and then sit back and smile like that—is actually, physically painful. Again, she's hit with the urge to throw something at him.

Actually, her strongest urge is to run away, but she knows she wouldn't get far. Realistically, she wouldn't even make it halfway to the door. There's no point in trying until she actually has a chance.

"Jem," he says, and the hurt is gone from his voice, replaced by an _incredibly_ off-putting fondness. "If I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead."

She has absolutely nothing to say to that. Even if she did, she's not entirely certain her voice would obey. Her anger has failed her, and all that's left is the fear. She knows, now, exactly what her husband is capable of, and it's impossible to look at him without seeing Eric Koenig's corpse, or the look on Skye's face when she was rescued.

Or Fitz, sacrificing himself for her sake.

She's exhausted and heartsick and terrified. She wants him gone. She wants this to be a nightmare. She wants the last _year_ to have been a nightmare—just a horrid, elaborate dream from which she'll wake any minute, curled in bed with him—the him that _isn't_ a murderer—in their quarters at the Sandbox. And she'll tell him about the dream, and he'll laugh at the idea of himself as a traitor, and he'll pretend offense when she mentions the beard he's sporting and how _creepy_ it makes him look.

She wants to wake up. But this isn't a nightmare.

"Why are you _here_?" she asks.

He has the nerve to look surprised. "For you, of course." He closes the distance between them, so that all that separates them is her flimsy wooden desk. "Seven months and you never _once_ came to visit me. Figured if the mountain won't come to Mohammed, and all that."

"Well, you've seen me," she says. "And now it's time for you to leave."

"Us."

"I'm sorry?" she asks, although she heard him perfectly well and has the horrible feeling that she knows _exactly_ what he meant.

"It's time for _us_ to leave," he clarifies.

Yes, she was afraid of that.

"What makes you think I'd go anywhere with you?" she asks. She tries to sound incredulous, or condescending, or _anything_ other than completely terrified, and fails. Miserably.

He chuckles a little and sits on the corner of her desk.

"You know, I never expected you to leave SHIELD," he says, apropos of nothing. "You were always so _dedicated_. Loyal." He pokes at the Newton's Cradle on her desk, sets it to swinging. "I guess the HYDRA thing was just too much for you, huh?" He smirks a little. "Or maybe it was me."

She takes a deep breath, but doesn't respond. She doesn't know whether admitting that yes, he did play a large role in her departure, would make things better or worse. So she says nothing.

"Either way, it's a surprise. But you can't have changed _too_ much. You still have a duty to _save lives_, right?" He picks up one of the framed photographs from her desk—specifically, the one from the field trip to the planetarium in Austin, in which she is surrounded by her ninth grade class. "You've just added to it. As a teacher…you'd want to protect your students." He sets the picture down and smiles at her. "Stop me if I'm getting warm."

Jemma goes cold. "Are you threatening them?"

"Threatening is such an ugly word," he muses. "All I'm saying is…if you don't come with me, I'll have to hang around until you change your mind." He stands. "And I've been locked up for months. My, uh," he smirks. "My self-control isn't what it used to be."

Bile burns at the back of her throat, and she swallows it down. How could she not have seen this? She loved this man. She _married_ this man. She planned a life with him. And all that time, there was _this_—this cruelty, this coldness—this _evil_—hiding just beneath the surface.

How did she miss it?

"So what do you say, Jem?" he asks. "Take a road trip with your husband?" He nudges one of the photographs. "Or am I gonna have to find something else to do?"

Her eyes flit to the clock on the wall. In ten minutes, classes will change, and the halls will be swarming with innocent, defenseless children. She can't let him hurt them—and she does, truly, believe him when he says (or, rather, implies) that he will.

She can't think of a single way out of this. Calling SHIELD would be useless—they're too far away. And the local police would stand no chance against him. She'd say that the last thing she wants is to go with him, but that's not true. The _last_ thing she wants is for more people to die because of her.

She takes a deep breath. Her hands are shaking.

"Where are we going?" she asks.

He grins. It makes her flinch.

"I've got some things to take care of," he says, and motions for her to precede him to the door. She grabs her bag and, reluctantly, leaves the imagined safety of her desk. "And you're going to help me with them."

He opens the door and wraps an arm around her shoulders. She tries to duck away, but he simply tightens his grip. Wary of causing a fuss and drawing anyone out of the surrounding classrooms, she gives in and accepts it.

"What sort of things?" she asks, although she's not entirely certain she wants to know.

His arm is a heavy weight on her shoulders. It feels like a threat. "I think it's time you met my brother."


	2. happiness in misery

A/N: First of all, thanks for all of the comments and kudos! They're excellent motivation.

Speaking of which, I know I owe responses to comments on some other stories and I will absolutely get to that ASAP, I promise. I just, as usual, wanted to get this finished and posted before tonight's episode. Please forgive the delay.

Second, just a friendly reminder that this Ward is _not _a nice guy. He is, in fact, a total creep. The reason it took me so long to finish this chapter is that I had to take very frequent breaks from writing it, because I kept making my own skin crawl with Ward's behavior. Fair warning: if you don't like Ward as the bad guy, this really isn't the story for you.

I think that's it. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

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><p>They make it through the building without encountering anyone, for which Jemma can only be grateful. She doesn't want to go anywhere with Ward—would, to be honest, give almost anything not to—but there's no one in this county (perhaps not even in the state) who could possibly stop him. She doesn't doubt for a moment that should anyone try to interfere, Ward will cross them off with no hesitation.<p>

So it's fortunate that they don't see anyone.

She has to wonder exactly how long ago he escaped custody, because he knows his way around the school surprisingly well. Admittedly, it's not a large building, but he never hesitates or doubles back. He leads her straight to the side door that opens on the faculty car park.

It's there that her luck (what little there was left of it, at any rate) runs out.

The door isn't wide enough for them to walk out together, so Ward removes his arm from her shoulders and gestures for her to lead the way. She tightens her grip on her bag (which she's hugging to her chest like a child's security blanket), wondering if she dares to try and hit him with it. Then she steps through the door and the decision is made for her.

Nathan Michaels, one of her chemistry students, is sitting on the stone outcropping next to the door, smoking a cigarette. When he sees her, he drops it and jumps to his feet.

"Mrs. C!" he exclaims. "I didn't—I don't—"

She can't respond to his stammering. She can't even breathe. Her heart, which had barely begun to slow with the removal of Ward's arm from her shoulders, nearly triples in speed. She wants to shout at him to run, to throw herself in front of him, but she's frozen in place as Ward exits the school behind her.

"Everything okay, Sarah?" he asks. He doesn't sound at all threatening or mocking, just concerned.

Her throat has closed up tight, and she swallows with great difficulty. If he's calling her Sarah—if he's putting on a show—then there's a chance he doesn't intend to kill Nathan. And if there's a chance Nathan might survive this, she can't mess it up.

"Yes," she says. Her voice is unbelievably steady, and she gives him her best smile. It feels more like a grimace, but she thinks Nathan is too busy panicking to notice. "It's fine. Just give us a moment, please."

"No problem," he smiles. His is much more convincing.

He walks behind her, brushing his hand along the small of her back as he passes, and then continues along the sidewalk. He comes to a stop some twenty feet away and leans against the stone outcropping to wait, still with that pleasant smile.

She considers grabbing Nathan and making a run for the school, but only for a second. None of the doors are locked during the school day, and there's no way she could get the building put into lockdown in the time it would take Ward to reach the next nearest entrance. She has no doubt that the consequences for even attempting it would be dire.

Nathan's best chance for survival comes from Jemma acting naturally and getting Ward away from the school as soon as possible. It's almost certainly too late for _her_, but her students and fellow faculty might make it out of this unscathed, if only she can get through this without tipping Nathan off that anything is wrong.

So she takes a deep breath to steady herself and turns to face him. He's stopped stammering, but he still looks more than a little apprehensive. And no surprise; Nathan's father is the Deputy Sheriff, and he wouldn't take well to hearing that his only son was caught cutting class _or_ smoking, let alone both at once.

On a normal day, Jemma wouldn't take well to it, either. But this is far from a normal day.

"Nathan," she says. She tries to imagine what her response to this would be if she _weren't_ in the process of being kidnapped by her deranged ex-husband. Disappointment? Anger? She has no idea, really; the fear for his life is too overwhelming. After a moment, she decides on disappointment. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"No, ma'am," Nathan mumbles. He looks at her from under his lashes. "Smoking is dangerous and unhealthy and it doesn't make me cool."

"Are you trying to pre-empt my lecture, young man?" she asks. Her voice falls rather short of playfully stern, she feels, but once again, Nathan doesn't appear to notice.

"No, ma'am," he repeats. "I would never."

But he gives her a hopeful little smile, trying to charm his way out of trouble. It's a tactic he uses often, and not one she's ever fallen for, although she always gives him points for trying. She can't even attempt any sort of witty banter, though—not today. She's far too aware of Ward, can _feel_ his eyes burning through her, and is terrified of what might happen if she draws this out too long.

So she sighs and makes a point of checking her watch.

"I need to hurry if I'm going to make it home and back in time for my next class," she says. "So you're off the hook." He brightens, a little, and she gives him what she hopes is a sharp look. "For the moment. You'll be meeting me after school for detention on Friday. I'll decide then whether or not I should involve your parents."

"Aww, Mrs. C—"

"I'm sorry," she says. "Do we think that arguing is going to help our case?"

"No, we do not," he says at once. "We wouldn't even dream of it."

"No," she agrees. "We're much smarter than that." She points at him. "Detention, after school, Friday. And if you aren't there, or if you mess about before then, I'll be ringing your father directly. Clear?"

"As crystal, Mrs. C," he says. "I'll be a perfect angel from now 'til then, no lie."

"We'll see," she says. It's fairly unlikely; Nathan isn't precisely a bad seed, but he's certainly a trouble-maker. "In the meantime, get to class. Now."

"Yes, ma'am," he says, with a little salute. "See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," she says (lies), and watches as he hurries into the building—probably worried that she'll change her mind about delaying his punishment.

She wishes she could. Unfortunately, she's almost positive that she won't be here to oversee his detention on Friday.

She stands, watching the door (still with her bag clutched to her chest; she's lucky he didn't seem to think anything of it) long after he's disappeared through it. Then Ward's arm wraps around her shoulders again and turns her towards the car park. She stumbles a little, weak-kneed from the very close call, but Ward's iron grip keeps her upright.

"Good job," he praises. "I'm so glad we could avoid bloodshed, aren't you?"

Her throat has closed up again, and she doesn't bother to speak past it this time. She simply allows herself to be steered towards the back of the lot. Their destination appears to be a black pick-up truck (which has certainly seen better days), and when they reach it, he removes his arm from her shoulders once again. He opens the passenger-side door and offers her a hand up.

For obvious reasons, she makes no move to let go of her handbag and accept his offered assistance.

He waits for a moment, hand outstretched, then shrugs and retracts it. "Have it your way."

They're the same words he spoke right before dropping them out of the Bus, and suddenly, Jemma is back in the med-pod, trapped under ninety feet of water and slowly suffocating. The flashback lasts for only a moment, but it's long enough that Ward closes what little distance there is between them without her notice. She doesn't have time to step back; he simply grabs her about the waist and physically lifts her into the cab of the truck, setting her sideways on the seat.

"Now was that so hard?" he asks chidingly. He lets go of her waist and slides his hands down to rest on her knees. "Do I have to move these for you, too?"

Skin crawling, she turns forcefully away to face the windshield.

"Didn't think so," he chuckles. Then he steps back and closes the door.

She sits back against the seat and watches as he walks around the front of the truck to the driver's side. She gives thought to getting out and making a run for it, but only for a moment. It comes back, once again, to the threat he poses. The local police would be helpless against a man with Ward's training. There's no one to run_ to_.

Except SHIELD, obviously, but the Playground is hundreds of miles away. And there's no telling what sort of state Ward left SHIELD in when he escaped. He said that he escaped _federal_ custody, of course, but surely Coulson would know about it and send the team after him? Who knows what he's done to them?

She watches from the corner of her eye as he climbs into the truck. It has a bench seat, with no console separating driver and passenger, so she presses herself against the door to keep as much space between them as possible.

Does she dare ask what's become of her team? Ignorance may be bliss, in this particular situation—but no. She's not a coward, and she owes it to her team to discover what happened to them. And, if necessary, find justice for them. How she might manage _that_ is entirely beyond her, but…she owes it to them to ask.

Before she can, however, Ward speaks.

"Give me your purse."

"What?" she asks, startled.

"Give me," he repeats slowly. "Your purse."

Well, it's not as though a bit of leather is going to protect her from a highly trained specialist, is it? Reluctantly, she sets her handbag down on the seat and slides it over, careful to keep as far from him as possible.

He casts her an amused glance, but says nothing, just picks up her bag and rifles through it. He pulls out her cell phone, her tablet, and her wallet, then leans out of his still-open door and drops all three to the pavement outside. After which he leans back inside, closes the door, and offers her her bag.

She doesn't move.

He rolls his eyes and drops it onto the floor between them, then turns to start the truck. He makes no move to pull out of the parking lot, however. Instead, he turns again in his seat to face her.

"Where's your ring?" he asks.

Reflexively, she looks down at her hand. The tan line where her ring once sat has long since faded. "Why?"

"You're still my wife," he says. "You should be wearing your ring."

"I am _not_ your wife," she disagrees. Her voice isn't nearly as sharp as she'd like it to be, but at least it doesn't shake. She'll take it as a victory.

"I never signed any divorce papers," he says. "Did you?"

No, she didn't.

"No divorce means that the _'til death do us part_ clause in our vows is still in effect. And, despite the…_charming_ story you've spread around," he continues. "Neither one of us is dead. Which means you're still my wife. So," he leans towards her, and she presses closer to the door. "_Where_ is your ring, Jemma?"

She'd like to say she got rid of it. Unfortunately, she didn't.

She stopped _wearing_ it at Providence, once she examined Eric Koenig's corpse and determined that the only person who could possibly have killed him was Ward.

She kept it in her pocket, though, for a time—because she wasn't willing to give up on her husband so easily. There was always the chance that he was being blackmailed, or coerced, or controlled like the Centipede soldiers. So she kept her ring close.

Until, that is, Skye was rescued. Her account of her time spent with Ward made it clear that he was working for HYDRA of his own free will. Not only that, her description of Ward's behavior was enough to make Jemma wonder whether she'd ever known him at all. She packed her ring away at once, with plans to get rid of it as soon as possible.

Yet, somehow, she never managed. Not after the med-pod, not after she left the Playground, not even after all of these months. She just can't do it. She's tried more than once, but each time she's lost her nerve.

She thought she'd have time. She thought it didn't matter.

She never thought she'd have to see him again.

"If you don't remember, that's fine," Ward says mildly. "I'm sure there's someone in this town who'd be _happy_ to give hers up…"

The clearly implied threat chills her, and she has to swallow before she can speak.

"It's at home," she says. "In my jewelry box."

"Good," he says, and sits back. He shifts the truck into gear and pulls out of the parking space. He stretches his arm along the back of the seat as he turns to check the back window, and she inches closer still to the door. "We'll make a quick stop for that, then."

Jemma thinks about protesting—if he wants to get it, he'll undoubtedly expect her to wear it—but gives it up as a bad job. What harm will wearing her ring do? She needs to pick her battles.

Ward doesn't ask for directions. It's not surprising—he obviously found her at school easily enough, so it makes sense that he would know where she lives. She sincerely regrets declining Coulson's offer of a new identity. It was foolish of her—arrogant, even—to use one of the ones Ward created. She took it for granted that he would remain locked away.

That was stupid.

"I don't suppose you've got mine?" he asks, as he turns into her driveway. "Coulson took it away from me."

"What did you do to them?" she asks, instead of answering. She simply can't hold it back any longer.

He glances at her, surprised. "The team?" He shifts the truck into park. "Nothing."

"Really."

"Really," he nods. He smirks a little. "I left them a little distraction, that's all. Didn't touch a hair on their heads."

"And the guards whose custody you escaped?" she presses.

His smirk widens. "_Them_ I touched."

It's what she was expecting, of course, but the callous—and, in fact, downright smug—way he says it makes her eyes burn. Those poor people…

She really never knew him at all.

"My ring?" he prompts.

"Yes," she says, a little hoarsely, and clears her throat. "I've got yours, as well."

"Great," he says, and turns the truck off. "Let's make this quick, huh? We're on a schedule, here."

x

Fifteen minutes later, they're pulling onto the highway. Jemma keeps twisting the ring on her finger; after eight months, the weight is unfamiliar. Just as she spent the first few weeks without it constantly aware of its absence, she's completely aware of its presence now.

Ward seems to be feeling the same. He keeps rubbing his thumb against his ring, keeping the heel of his hand braced against the wheel to steer. He, however, is clearly pleased to be wearing his ring again, whereas Jemma is decidedly not.

The silence between them is more than a little oppressive, but she's hardly about to break it. She keeps her head turned away from him, staring out the window—or, more accurately, _at_ the window; she's not really seeing any of the passing scenery.

Her fear is starting to fade a little. It's still there, a horrible tightness in her chest and a lump in her throat, but it's not as frantic. Her heartbeat is finally slowing, returning to a somewhat normal pace. As the minutes pass and he makes no move to harm her (or anyone else), she relaxes the slightest bit.

In place of the fear, exhaustion takes root. Or, more accurately, returns to center stage. It's not a new sensation, exhaustion. It's an ever-present companion, these days, and no amount of sleep will ease it. She's been exhausted for ages—for months. Since long before the attack on the UN. Since before she left SHIELD to start a new life.

There's a bone-deep weariness in her, and it's been weighing her down since the moment she looked at Eric Koenig's corpse and accepted that there was only one person who could possibly have killed him.

They're more than two hours down the highway, her new home long behind them, when Ward finally breaks the silence. She's grown so used to the tension-filled quiet that she actually jumps a little when he speaks.

"Why Sarah?"

She pointedly returns her attention to the window and doesn't answer.

"Do you like teaching?" he tries again.

Words cannot _possibly_ express how much she doesn't want to share small talk with him. She remains silent.

"Really?" he sighs, like she's being completely unreasonable. "The silent treatment? That's a little below you, don't you think?"

"I have nothing to say to you," she says plainly. It's a lie; she has plenty to say to him, words she's been building up for _months_, words about betrayal and murder and _evil_. She just doesn't dare speak them, for fear of how he'll react. So far her cooperation has been enough to keep him from killing anyone, but that might change if she angers him.

So the words she's been saving will have to wait a while longer.

"Sorry, what was that?" he asks pleasantly. "I can't hear you when you're way over there."

Without removing his eyes from the road, he unerringly reaches out, grabs her arm, and drags her across the seat until she's pressed up against his side. He moves so quickly that she doesn't even have time to react, let alone try to fight him.

"There," he says, releasing her arm in favor of resting his hand on her knee. "Isn't that better?"

She starts to shift away from him and his grip on her knee tightens—not enough to hurt, but it's a clear warning. So she stays where she is. She crosses her arms to hide the tremor in her hands and doesn't speak. Her heart is racing again, and it feels like the warmth of his hand is burning through the fabric of her jeans, scarring the flesh beneath.

It's just her imagination. She knows that. But it doesn't stop her skin from crawling.

"Now, let's try this again," he says, still in that awful, pleasant tone. "What were you saying?"

She digs her nails into her arms and reaches for calm. He's obviously getting some twisted amusement out of scaring her, and they both know she's terrified. But she doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of showing it.

So she's proud of how even her voice is when she says, "I said that I don't have anything to say to you."

"Really?" he asks, giving her a skeptical glance. "It's been seven months since the last time we spoke, and you don't have _anything_ to say?"

"No," she says. "I don't."

"Not even how much you missed me?" he prompts.

"I didn't miss you."

She thinks better of it as soon as she says it, and for a moment she holds her breath, fearful of how he might react. He surprises her by laughing.

"Now _that's_ a lie," he says.

"No," she says quietly. "It's not."

"We've been together for seven years," he reminds her, and the fact that he puts it in terms of the present tense makes her bizarrely angry. "You really expect me to believe you didn't miss me at all?"

"I don't _know_ you," she says. "The man I miss never existed."

Her voice breaks a little, and she digs her nails into her arms again, trying to gain control of her emotions. She's been swinging wildly between terror, fury, and grief since he showed up at her classroom door two hours ago, and while she thinks she can be excused for it, she's not doing herself any favors. If she hopes to gain any sort of advantage over him, ever, she needs a clear head.

Unfortunately, it's much easier said than done.

"He was a cover," she adds, once she's certain that her voice will remain steady. "Just another role you were playing."

"You sure about that?" he asks.

She thinks again of Eric Koenig, shoved in a vent with his trachea sliced and crushed, and looks away.

"Yes."

"Really," he says, sounding a little less amused. "We've had—what, three conversations—_counting _this one—since you found out about me, and that's enough to convince you that I was playing a part the whole time we were together?"

"Actions speak louder than words," she says simply.

"I had the chance to kill Skye," he points out. "I didn't take it. I had the chance to kill Coulson—didn't take it. I had the chance—"

"You almost killed _me_," she interrupts sharply. "_And_ Fitz. You dropped—"

She goes silent when his hand, which _has_ been resting lightly on her knee, clamps down painfully. It's only for a moment, before he lets go of her abruptly, but it's enough to swing her away from anger and right back to fear.

Ward takes a deep breath and shifts slightly, grabbing the wheel with his right hand as he scrubs his left over his mouth. Free of his touch, she scoots as far away from him as she dares—which, admittedly, isn't far, but at least it puts some space between them.

"I really wish," he says, in a tone which suggests he's struggling to control his temper. "That people would stop bringing that up."

She eyes him warily and decides to keep her thoughts on _that_ to herself.

"Don't give me that look," he snaps, and she can't stop herself from flinching. He takes another deep breath and smiles tightly. "Yes, I dropped you out of the Bus. But you survived, didn't you? Let it go, already."

She stares at him for a long moment. She doesn't see the slightest sign of guilt. This reaction, from what she can tell, isn't born of shame or regret. It's pure annoyance. As far as he's concerned, what he did to her and Fitz is in the past and should be forgotten.

It's possible that it's just another act—just one more role he's playing, trying to keep her off-balance. But she doesn't think so.

It's a horrible, cruel irony. She spent _years_ wishing he would stop feeling so guilty—that he would stop blaming himself for everything that ever went wrong and everything he had to do, as a specialist. Now she wishes that he _did_ blame himself. Even the smallest _hint_ of guilt over everything he's done—

What? What difference would it make if he felt guilty? If he were _sorry_?

Guilt can't bring the people he killed back to life. _Sorry_ can't change the way he betrayed them.

She shakes her head and keeps her silence. There's no point to this at all.

x

Nearly three hours later, Ward pulls off the highway. They've been driving for about five hours now, and they're not even out of Texas yet. She sincerely hopes that he was joking about taking a road trip, because even assuming that his brother is in Washington, DC and not Massachusetts, it's a very, very long drive. Another thousand miles, at _least_, and she's fairly certain it's closer to two.

So she really hopes that he's got some sort of aircraft stashed somewhere, because she'd like to get this over with as quickly as possible. Not that she's anxious to find out what's going to happen once they've reached Christian—she assumes that _death_ is on the menu, both for herself and for the senator—but the past five hours have been torture, and she's not sure how much more she can stand.

Unfortunately, things aren't looking good on that score, as rather than heading for an airport or airfield of some kind, Ward turns left into a petrol station. He parks at one of the pumps and turns the truck off, but doesn't move to get out.

"So," he says, and turns to face her. "Here's how this is gonna work. If you run away from me, I'm not gonna chase you. I don't have time for it. So if you wanna go, go. I won't stop you."

She shifts closer to the passenger-side door, but doesn't open it. After all of the effort he went to to bring her this far, she rather doubts it's that simple. Her suspicions are confirmed when he continues.

"But if you leave, I'm gonna cross someone off—an _innocent, defenseless_ stranger," he stresses. "Every five minutes until I see you again."

It's his most blatant threat yet, and at this point, it's not even a surprise. It still makes her sick to hear him say it, though. Sooner or later, it's going to have to stop hurting that the man she loves—loved—is this _awful_, but unfortunately, she hasn't reached that point yet.

"Do you understand?" he asks.

"Yes," she says. "I won't run."

"Good," he says. Then he smiles. "We're gonna stop for the night in a few hours, but you can go ahead and buy yourself something for tomorrow, if you like. We won't be stopping for lunch."

She doesn't move.

"Oh, right," he realizes. "I tossed your wallet, didn't I?" He shifts and pulls his own wallet out, then holds out a twenty. "Here. Go crazy."

"Thank you," she says, more out of habit than any desire to be polite. "But I'm not hungry."

"Tomorrow you might be," he says reasonably.

She truly doubts it—her stomach has tied itself into knots that she imagines will take weeks to loosen—but she reminds herself that she's picking her battles and takes the money, tucking it into her pocket.

"Thank you," she repeats, and opens her door as Grant does the same to his.

"I'll be in in a minute," he says. "Just gotta get this going."

She nods in acknowledgement and heads into the convenience store attached to the station. After a brief stop in the restroom—which is surprisingly clean—she starts to wander the aisles, examining the snacks on offer. As expected, absolutely nothing appeals.

She's staring blankly at a collection of trail mixes when her peripheral vision catches movement, and she turns to look at the boy stocking the shelves in the next aisle. Or, well, he's obviously _supposed_ to be stocking the shelves. What he's actually doing is standing there texting, and it gives her an idea.

She can't run, because she's a long way from anyone who could stop Ward from carrying out his threat. A phone call, on the other hand…well, what harm could that do? If she hurries, she can alert SHIELD to their location without Ward ever finding out about it. And while it's unlikely SHIELD could reach them before he's finished filling up the truck, it would at least give the team something to go on.

She risks a glance out of the store's front windows and sees that Ward is still outside. He's pacing in front of the truck with a phone pressed to his ear, and while it does give her a moment of pause—who could he possibly be calling?—she's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Excuse me," she says to the boy, whose nametag reads KYLE in oddly spiky letters.

He startles a little and looks up. "Yeah, what?"

After spending nearly six months in charge of children, in one way or another, it's pure habit that has her raising an eyebrow at his tone. It does the job, though: he smiles sheepishly and clears his throat.

"I mean, how can I help you, ma'am?" he amends.

"May I borrow your phone?" she asks. "I need to make a quick call."

He hesitates.

"Please," she says. "It will only be a moment, I promise."

She must look as desperate as she feels, because after a long moment, he hands his mobile over. It's a stroke of luck; she was expecting to be directed to the check-out counter to use the store's phone.

"Thank you," she says sincerely as she pulls up the keypad screen. "Truly."

"No problem," he shrugs.

Jemma has always had an excellent head for numbers, which is fortunate, since Kyle's mobile, obviously, does not have any of her contacts. So it's a good thing she has most of them memorized (even though she hasn't actually used any of them since leaving the Playground—her only contact with the team has been May's sporadic updates on Fitz's condition, and those were all delivered through email).

After barely a second of mental debate, she begins to enter May's number. She's the member of the team least likely to delay her with pointless questions, and there's no time to waste. (She'll have to remember to erase it from Kyle's call log as soon as she's done, however; she doesn't imagine May would appreciate her number being available to a random stock-boy in Texas.)

Once again, though, her spot of good luck is followed immediately by misfortune; she's just entered the last digit of May's number when the mobile is plucked right out of her hands. Heart in her throat, she raises her eyes to meet Ward's.

"Good news, honey," he says. "I managed to get a signal after all. I called Victoria. She's gonna meet us there."

The choice of name has to be deliberate, and she feels sick as she returns his smile. She should have kept a better eye on him; he must have finished his call as soon as she looked away. She can tell he's furious—he's barely bothering to hide it behind his pleasant smile.

She just hopes that it's her who pays the price for this, and not Kyle.

"Oh," she says, a little faintly. "Good." She takes the phone back from him with nerveless fingers and hands it to Kyle. "I guess I don't need that, after all. Thank you, though."

"No problem," he repeats, slowly. His looks from her to Ward and back again, appearing slightly suspicious, and she holds her breath. Whatever he sees on their faces must reassure him, however, because after a moment he relaxes and tucks his phone away. "Can I help y'all find anything?"

"No, we're good," Ward says. "Thanks, man."

"Yeah," Kyle shrugs, and turns his attention to stocking the shelves.

As soon as he looks away, Ward takes Jemma's hand and tugs her away, steering her towards the drink coolers in the back of the store. Once they reach them, safely out of earshot of Kyle, the cashier, and the only other customer in the store, he rounds on her, letting go of her hand in favor of gripping her by the shoulder.

"What did I say?" he demands through gritted teeth. If that wasn't enough to tip her off to his anger, the way his fingers dig into her skin would; he's sure to leave bruises.

The fact that he kept up a pretense in front of Kyle, not to mention his low tone, gives her hope that he might not intend to retaliate by killing anyone here. If nothing else, he seems to want to fly under the radar, and killing three people is not the way to do it. On the other hand, he's so clearly furious that she worries reason might take a backseat to emotion.

And she has no idea how to placate him. She knew how to handle the man she married, how to defuse his temper and trick him into laughing when all he wanted was to shout, but the man she married doesn't exist. And she doesn't know what sort of reaction treating Ward like she would have treated Grant (not that she would ever have been in this type of situation with Grant) might garner.

"Well?" he bites out.

She has to say _something_.

"You said I couldn't run," she points out. "You didn't say anything about making phone calls."

He gives her a long, unreadable look, and for a moment she's afraid that she's only made things worse. Then he laughs and loosens his grip on her shoulder.

"There's that spine," he says delightedly. "I was wondering where it went."

She blinks at him, taken slightly aback.

"Oh, don't get me wrong," he says, reading her surprise. "If you try anything like that again, I'll kill—let's say two people for every number you manage to put in before I catch you."

Ice creeps up her spine—not so much for the words (although they're horrifying in and of themselves) as for the broad smile on his face as he says them. He's both entirely serious and entirely amused by the prospect.

"But you're right," he continues. "I did leave a pretty big loophole there. So let me close it right now."

He removes his hand from her shoulder to cup her face with it instead, leaning in as though he's about to kiss her, and it takes all of her strength not to shove him away.

His voice, when he speaks again, is quieter—lower—like a lover sharing a secret. "If you make _any _attempt to get away, or to contact SHIELD, or to tip _anyone_ off to your current circumstances? Well." He brushes his thumb against her cheek. "You said, earlier, that you don't know me, and maybe you don't. But I know _you_, Jemma. I know exactly how to hurt you." In some twisted mockery of intimacy, he leans even closer and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. Then he moves back to meet her eyes again. "If you pull another stunt like this, I will _break_ you. And I won't have to lay a single hand on you to do it."

He finally lets go of her and takes a step back, and Jemma realizes, distantly, that she's shaking. She's broken out into a cold sweat, and her vision is slightly grey at the edges. For a moment, she's honestly afraid that she might faint.

Somehow—even with his insistence on stopping for their rings, even with his attempts at conversation, even with his repeated references to their relationship and her own regrets about _everything_—she keeps forgetting: he does know her. She married this man, true, but _he_ also married _her_.

This isn't just some murderer who's kidnapped her on a whim. This is a man who spent seven years pretending to love her—a man who knows her, inside and out.

He says he knows how to hurt her. She absolutely believes him. More importantly, she believes that he will.

"Are we clear?" he asks.

She's reminded of her conversation with Nathan, hours ago (although it feels like years), and it helps her center herself. Nathan walked away, whole and unharmed, because she cooperated with Ward—because she knew that trying _anything_ was too much of a risk. It was foolish of her to forget that.

The last thing she wants is for anyone to get hurt on her account. Cooperating will ensure that that doesn't happen. She won't be trying anything else.

"As crystal," she says. She's still shaking, but her voice is steady, and it seems to satisfy Ward.

"Glad to hear it," he says, and then gestures towards the aisles. "Now, pick out what you want and let's go. We're wasting daylight."

x

The next few hours pass mostly in silence. Even if she wanted to talk to him (which, honestly, she doesn't) she can't get his words out of her mind—the way he kissed her forehead and promised to break her. Every time she remembers it, breathing becomes difficult. Speaking is entirely beyond her.

Luckily, Ward seems content to leave her be.

About an hour after leaving the store, he makes a phone call, which he conducts entirely in Russian. And an hour after that, he _receives_ a phone call. That one is in Arabic.

She's admittedly curious (and a bit concerned; she can't imagine he's up to anything good), but not enough to ask him any questions. He notices her interest anyway, of course, and gives her a distinctly worrying smile after he rings off from the second call.

"Just putting some things in order," he says. "A gift for SHIELD, for example."

She doesn't like the sound of that at all.

"No need to look like that," he tells her, obviously amused. "Now that I'm gone, so is Coulson's only source of intel on HYDRA. I'm just…arranging for a replacement."

That's even _more_ worrying, honestly. But apparently Ward's not in the mood to share any more than that, and she's still not quite capable of speech. So they fall back into silence.

An hour later, they pass the state line into Arkansas, and Ward takes the very next exit.

"We're stopping here for the night," he says, turning into the drive of a Best Western. "Any objections?"

She shakes her head.

"Great," he says. He pulls to a stop in front of the office and shifts the truck into park. "I'll be right back."

He doesn't warn her not to try anything while he's gone. He doesn't have to.

She stares out the window as she waits, her mind going in circles, from what happened a few hours ago to his words about a _gift_ for SHIELD to, bizarrely, the half-graded midterms she left on her desk. Her poor ninth graders must be going mad with frustration; knowing the subject matter as well as she does, she didn't bother to make an answer key, so any substitute the school finds won't be able to mark the exams.

There's a shortage of substitutes in their district, anyway. She wonders whether Mr. Whitfield, the teacher she replaced, might be willing to come back from retirement and take over her classes—at least until the end of the semester. It really isn't fair that her students should suffer just because Jemma had the misfortune to marry a serial killer.

Contemplating how her unexpected kidnapping will affect her students keeps her occupied until Ward returns.

"We're in 115," he tells her as he shifts the truck back into gear. He drives around the side of the hotel and parks right outside the door marked 115. "Come on."

She's a little slow getting out of the truck, after three hours in which she barely moved a muscle, and once she does, she takes a moment to steady herself against the side. While she does so, Ward reaches into the truck bed and pulls out two duffle bags, then heads for their room. Curious, she gets on her toes to see what else might be in the bed, but it appears the duffle bags were it.

"Jemma," Ward says, tone surprisingly even. "Tonight, please."

Right.

There's a fear she hasn't been allowing herself to even _think _of, let alone feel. Luckily, it's lessened as soon as she follows him into the room, where she's beyond relieved to find two beds waiting for them. Ward lobs the smaller of the two duffles he's holding onto the bed farther from the door and then gives her a slight nod.

"That one's yours," he says. When she hesitates, he rolls his eyes and clarifies, "The bag _and_ the bed. The clothes might be a bit big," he looks her over with a disapproving frown. "Since you've lost weight. But they're better than nothing, right?"

She doesn't know what to think about the fact that he brought clothes for her. She distracts herself with the bag, which she unzips to find not only several days' (perhaps even weeks') worth of clothes, but also toiletries and a make-up bag.

And she really doesn't know what to think of _that_.

"Okay," Ward says, drawing her attention away from the bag. He's frowning at her. "Your little mute act is _really_ starting to get old. Say something, already."

She doesn't know whether it's his intention, but the words spark something in her, and for the first time since he threatened her in the store, her anger outweighs her fear. Getting old? Her _mute act_ is _getting old_?

As though it's some amusement. As though it's just a game. As though her silence was caused by anything other than the complete, utter _terror_ he invoked in her.

For some reason, it just infuriates her. He kidnapped her, dragged her hundreds of miles away from home, threatened her repeatedly, and obviously intends to continue to do so for several more days, at the very least—and now he has the nerve to complain because she _isn't speaking_?

"I'm sorry," she snaps. "What would you like me to say? 'Thank you for buying me clothes and then criticizing my weight,' perhaps?"

He smirks. "Yeah. That's better."

He drops his bag on his bed and disappears out the door without another word, leaving her staring after him. She can't keep up with his moods at all.

After a moment, she shakes off her confusion and returns her attention to her bag. She digs through it, taking stock of the different clothes on offer. There are several of the vest tops and cotton shorts she favors for sleeping in, but she doesn't touch them. There's no way she's going to be getting any sleep tonight.

The toiletries bag contains her favorite brand of face wash—something she chooses not to think about for too long, because trying to puzzle out Ward's motives can only lead to a headache—and she pulls it out, along with the toothbrush and toothpaste, and carries them over to the sink. Just because she's been kidnapped by her clearly psychotic ex-husband is no reason to let her nighttime ritual lapse, she thinks (a touch fatalistically).

She's just drying her face when Ward returns. Their hotel room is the sort in which the sink is _outside_ of the bathroom, and the mirror above it is perfectly positioned to let her watch him walk into the room. He's slipping his mobile into his pocket as he does so, which at least answers the question of why he left. More mysterious phone calls.

"You should get to bed," he says. "We're leaving bright and early."

"All right," she agrees, because she doesn't see much point in arguing.

"I'm going to make a run to the CVS on the corner," he continues, lifting a hand to rub at his beard as he speaks. "I need a better razor than what I've got in my go-bag."

"Right."

"I'll be back soon," he promises (threatens, really), then leaves.

Vaguely wondering why he bothered to come back into the room at all—it's not as though she _knew_ he was just outside before—she perches on the edge of her bed. The hum of the air conditioner is loud in the otherwise silent room, and if she closes her eyes, she can almost pretend that what she's hearing is actually the sound of the Bus' engines in flight.

The Bus was the last place that she was really, truly happy. Even with everything that's happened today, she can't regret leaving SHIELD…but she does miss it.

Her stomach growls, breaking the fantasy, and she looks down reflexively. Ward drove them through a McDonald's for dinner two hours ago, but she was unable to touch the meal he ordered her. She still doesn't _feel_ hungry, but apparently her body missed the memo on that.

Her stomach growls again, but she ignores it. Even if there was anything at hand, she wouldn't eat it—the mere thought of food is enough to make her feel queasy. She looks around the room, casting about for a distraction, and her eyes fall on the phone sitting on the table between the two beds.

She looks at it for a long moment, considering. Even if he drives to the CVS instead of walking, even if he finds a razor straight away, even if there's not a single other customer there…he'll be at least five minutes. She could make a quick two-minute call, just long enough to tell the team where they are. He'd never know.

(_If you pull another stunt like this, I will _break_ you._)

…She can't risk it.

She turns away from the phone and crawls under the covers, curling up on her side with her back to Ward's bed. She's sure she won't sleep at all, and if she's going to lie awake all night, she doesn't want to be looking at him while she does it.

She underestimates her own exhaustion. She's asleep before he returns.

x

The lab is rapidly filling with water, and Fitz is trapped inside. He yanks desperately at the door, screaming her name, but it's stuck—no, locked—and she's drowning in water of her own and can't reach the lock. Fitz is screaming and struggling, and she's fighting against the current, trying so hard to get to him, but for every inch she moves forward she's swept back another foot.

She's screaming, too—his name, or maybe just 'no,' she's not sure. The water is still rising, and she's farther from the door than she was when it first appeared, and now Fitz isn't screaming, just drowning. He's pounding on the glass, his eyes begging her to help him, but she still can't reach because the air pressure is dragging her towards the lowered ramp—

Then Grant is there, wrapping his arms around her and telling her that it was just a dream, Fitz is fine, and she buries her face in his chest as she sobs. His body is warm against hers, and she holds on to him desperately, curling as close to him as she can, hoping to chase away the chill the water left in her bones.

"Breathe, Jemma," he says, over and over again. "It was just a dream. Fitz is safe. I'm right here."

There's something _wrong_ with this, something she should remember, but she can't grasp it—can't think past the picture of Fitz, trapped and drowning and begging for help—so she lets herself be soothed by solid warmth and comforting words. And even once the afterimages of the dream—nightmare—begin to fade, she's so exhausted that she can't straighten things out, can't set her mind in order enough to determine what's wrong with this picture.

"You're okay," Grant promises, and holds her a little closer. "Go back to sleep."

So she does.

x

Jemma wakes slowly. She's feeling oddly well-rested, but isn't at all inclined to get up yet, because she's also feeling remarkably _comfortable_. There's a strong arm resting on her waist and a solid chest pressed to her back, and it takes her several moments to remember why that's unusual.

When she does, she scrambles out of bed, nearly falling to the floor in her haste.

"Careful," Ward chides, propping his head on one hand. He looks perfectly comfortable, stretched out in the bed they apparently shared last night, and she refuses to acknowledge the way the sight _hurts_. "We really don't have time for a visit to the emergency room if you hurt yourself."

"What are you _doing_?" she demands.

"Well, I _was_ sleeping," he says pointedly. "What did it look like?"

"In _my_ bed," she snaps.

He sighs and sits up. "You were having a nightmare. I woke you up and calmed you down. You're welcome."

She wants to tell him that he doesn't get to do that. He doesn't get to claim credit for calming her, not when the reason for her distress was a nightmare that _he_ caused. Not when he _is_ a nightmare, a monster she thought she'd left behind that's come out of left field to ruin her life _again_, just when she was starting to rebuild it.

That's what she _wants_ to say to him…but she doesn't. She doesn't say anything at all. What would be the point? If yesterday taught her one thing, it's that he isn't the least bit sorry for what he's done—and that he reacts badly to the suggestion that he _should_ be.

He stretches to pick the clock radio up off the bedside table and checks the time.

"Almost time to get up, anyway," he says, putting it back down. "You want the first shower?"

It's such a _domestic_ thing to say, such an easy, familiar question, of the sort that he might have asked her on any given morning during their marriage, and abruptly, she's on the edge of tears. She grabs her bag and retreats to the bathroom before he can notice—or comment, at least.

She locks the door and then slumps back against it, burying her face in her hands. She remembers how she felt when she woke, warm and comfortable and _safe_ for the first time in months, and it makes things that much worse.

Seven, nearly eight, months since her entire world fell apart, and the closest she's come to feeling whole is sleeping in the arms of the man who, when she's awake, is the biggest threat to her safety.

Unfortunately, she's fairly certain that things are only going to get worse from here.


	3. sweat it out

A/N: First of all, thank you very much to everyone who commented, bookmarked, subscribed, and kudo'd. This story has gotten a major reaction and I very much appreciate it.

Second, the lovely, amazing sapphireglyphs (who is, in case you don't already know this, my absolute favorite) made a spectacular edit for this fic. Once you've read the chapter (or before, even; I'm not picky), you should absolutely go check it out and heap praise on her, because it's gorgeous: sapphireglyphs dot tumblr dot com /post/104339096351/erase-myself-and-let-go-start-it-over-again

Third, in case you missed it, there is a collection of drabbles relating to this verse called _the end will come (and wash it all away)_. There are only two drabbles so far, but I've got more requests in my inbox, so more will be added eventually. So check that out, if you haven't already.

Fourth, another reminder that this is not a nice Ward. He's super creepy. Fair warning.

I think that's it! Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review.

* * *

><p>By the time Jemma finishes her shower, she's feeling—if not better—a little more in control of herself. She's had months to come to terms with what she lost, and while it's understandable that seeing Ward has stirred it all up again, she can't allow herself to dwell on despair. He's clearly enjoying watching her suffer, and if she can do nothing else, she can deny him that. She needs to keep her calm.<p>

Wrapped in a towel, she digs through the duffle bag to find that Ward was correct: the clothes he bought her _are_ a little large. Not so bad as to be unwearable, just a little looser than she generally prefers. She dresses quickly in jeans and a wool jumper and then, as she's lacking a hair dryer, clips her hair back to let it air dry.

She returns her shampoo and shower gel to the toiletries bag (both are, just as the face wash, her favorite brands, and once again she is _not thinking about it_) then, because she did make rather a mess of things whilst picking her outfit, carefully refolds and repacks all of the clothes into the duffle bag.

That complete, she looks around the room carefully, but no other opportunities to stall present themselves. So, with a deep breath, she picks up the bag and leaves the (admittedly, mostly imagined) safety of the bathroom.

Ward is on the phone again. He's turned all the lights on, and is sitting—or sprawling, rather—at the small desk near the door, writing something on the hotel stationery as he speaks. As she drops her bag on the floor next to the bed, he looks up from his note-taking to give her a slow once-over.

Then he grins and switches abruptly from Arabic to English.

"You'll especially want to watch out for May," he says, eyes locked with hers. "She packs a punch."

She takes a step forward before she can stop herself. She doesn't know what she's planning to do—or even if she's planning to do anything at all. It's a simple reflexive response to the mention of May, and it clearly amuses Ward, who gives her a little wink.

"Yeah," he says into the phone. "Let me know when you're ten minutes out. I'll get things started."

Her heart is in her throat as he hangs up and lobs his mobile across the room, where it lands in his open duffle bag. She remembers what he said yesterday about a gift for SHIELD and wonders if that _gift_ is going to be a slaughter. More importantly, she wonders what she can do to stop it.

"Calm down, Jem," he chides, standing. "I can see your mind working, and as fun as it might be to see what you come up with, there's no need for you to interfere."

"No?" she asks, crossing her arms. "What was that about May, then?"

He crosses the room until he's standing right in front of her, looming over her in a less-than-subtle threat. Her heart is racing, but she doesn't back away. She simply tilts her head back to meet his eyes steadily. The implied threat to her team outweighs her fear of him.

After a moment, Ward grins again and lifts a hand to cup her chin.

"You're cute when you're feeling brave," he teases, brushing his thumb along her bottom lip. Skin crawling, she knocks his hand away, and he laughs quietly. "But there's really no need for it. I told you yesterday, I'm arranging a replacement prisoner for Coulson. Can't be there myself, obviously, since we've got other plans, so I'm using an intermediary. I was just warning him to keep out of the crossfire, that's all."

"And you did it in English," she says. "Because you wanted to see how I'd react?"

"Yeah," he says. "Pretty much. It was…" He smirks a little. "Illuminating." He pats her on the cheek and then turns away. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna shower. We'll leave as soon as I'm dressed."

As he turns away, however, her eyes catch on his wrist, and, without thinking, she grabs his arm. Once her mind catches up to her actions, she lets go immediately, but what's done is done, and Ward looks back at her with a smirk.

"What?" he asks. "You in the mood to join me?"

She's leery of giving the impression that she cares about his well-being, because he really doesn't need the encouragement. However, she'll _certainly_ take that over his offer, so she gathers her composure and nods at his wrist.

"What happened?" she asks.

He turns to face her properly again and holds out his arms, displaying the large, ugly scars marring both of his wrists. She stares, taking in the size and placement of them. The sheer amount of blood loss they must have caused…

"You attempted suicide?" she asks, a little faintly.

"Would it bother you if I said yes?" he counters.

Honestly, she has no idea. She doesn't know _what_ she's feeling at the moment. And even if she did, she still might not answer—because a negative response might enrage him, while a positive response might encourage him. It's better not to speak at all.

"No?" he asks, and lowers his arms. "Well, I didn't. Not seriously, at least."

"What?" she asks, confused. Those scars look fairly serious to her.

(They're large enough that it's truly surprising it took her this long to notice them. He was wearing a jacket all day yesterday, of course, but even with the room as dark as it was when she woke, she really should have seen them then. She's a scientist, for all that she's spent the past few months playing school teacher. Being emotional is no excuse for being unobservant.)

"Coulson saw me as too much of a threat," he says, walking over to the bed that was _supposed_ to be his. He rummages through his duffle bag as he speaks. "I needed to convince him I wasn't, get him to lower his guard. The, uh, _broken_ act was my best play. So I pretended to try to kill myself a few times."

"Pretended to…" she breaks off and shakes her head. The risks he takes are none of her concern. If he slit his own wrists solely to trick Coulson into relaxing his guard, the only thing it should do is remind her of just how manipulative—how calculating—he is.

"It was risky," he acknowledges, apparently following her train of thought. "But, to be fair, I didn't know you were gone. Not at first, anyway. And Trip patched me up fine." He draws a black bag out of his duffle and drops it on the bed. "And, most importantly, it worked. Coulson thought I was crazy, it made him sloppy, and here we are."

"Here we are," she agrees, significantly less cheerfully.

"The rest of our catching up will have to wait," he says. "I need to shower so we can get moving."

His hands go to the drawstring on his pajama bottoms, and Jemma turns away, ignoring his soft laughter. She's half-expecting some snarky comment about how it's nothing she hasn't seen before, but all he does is squeeze her shoulder as he passes her on his way into the bathroom.

"Out in a minute," he says.

As soon as the door closes behind him, she goes straight to the desk. Unfortunately, none of what he's written down is in English (or French, which she would also be able to read). It's entirely in Russian, which is interesting, since she's positive he was using Arabic on the phone. Speaking of which…

She darts a glance at the bathroom door (still closed), then crosses to Ward's still-open duffle bag. His mobile is resting on top of his neatly folded clothes, and after the barest second of hesitation, she picks it up.

It's an old Nokia—old enough that it has neither touch-screen nor slide-out keyboard, and she puzzles over the choice…but only for a moment. Even a phone this old has a call log, and she thumbs through it quickly. She makes note of the last three numbers called and burns them into her mind.

Then she weighs the phone in her hand, torn. She can hear the shower running. A quick call to May or Coulson, just long enough to give them her location, warn them about the 'gift,' and pass along these numbers…it wouldn't even take thirty seconds. She'd have plenty of time to erase the call from the log and return the phone to the bag. He'd never know.

Her thumb hovers over the keypad. She should make the call. Her team could be in danger. There's no guarantee that Ward's telling the truth about his 'gift' being a replacement prisoner. After all, he was willing to slit his own wrists just to increase his chances of escape. Who knows how far he might go to gain revenge against the people who locked him up? Her team might be—actually, is almost certainly—in danger. It's her _duty_ to do whatever she can to help them.

But there's a knot of fear in her chest as she stares down at the phone. She's thinking of what happened yesterday, of his threat to break her and her fear for the lives of the people in that store. How many people are staying in this hotel right now?

Two people for every number she puts in before he catches her. Assuming she manages the whole thing, that's ten numbers. Twenty people.

Can she risk that? Can she risk the lives of twenty innocent strangers in the name of warning her team about a threat of which she knows absolutely no details?

Can she prioritize the lives of the people she loves over the lives of helpless civilians?

She hesitates too long, and the decision is made for her as the shower cuts off. Cursing silently, she returns the phone to Ward's bag and hurries to sit on the far side of the other bed. She doesn't try to look innocent, because she knows that's sure to fail. She simply reminds herself that she has nothing to feel guilty about. She didn't make the call.

(She hopes she won't regret it.)

Ward exits the bathroom wearing only a towel around his waist, and Jemma looks down at her hands. She toys with her wedding ring, twisting it back and forth. It still feels odd to be wearing it again, but at the same time, it's so familiar that it's almost comforting. Almost.

An odd buzzing sound pulls her out of her contemplation of her ring, and she looks up to find Ward standing at the sink, shaving with an electric razor. She wishes he wouldn't. The beard doesn't suit him at all, and, in fact, adds a rather significant creepiness factor to his overall appearance, but without it he'll look that much more like her husband. She doesn't want that—doesn't want to be able to forget, for even the slightest fraction of a second, that this man is a traitor and a murderer.

Still, she has the feeling that commenting on his appearance will open up an avenue of conversation that she _truly_ does not want to go down. So she returns to fiddling with her ring and keeps her silence.

Eventually, the buzz of the razor ceases, and Ward makes a thoughtful noise.

"What do you think?" he asks. "Should I leave the stubble? Or shave it, too?"

Without looking up, she shrugs.

"You're right," he says, as though she's answered. "I look better with it. Clean-shaven doesn't suit me nearly as well as it suits my cover."

She suspects that, in other circumstances, the reference to the lie he lived with her for so long would hurt. At the moment, however, she's too busy trying not to panic to give it much attention.

She hears him set the razor down and closes her eyes. Her heart is in her throat as he walks past her on his way to the other bed. She's terrified of what her face might give away, and terrified that he'll somehow know that she looked through his mobile. She was in such a hurry when she put it back; what if she didn't replace it exactly? What if it's off-center, or wrong side up, and he notices?

She can hear the rustle of cloth behind her as he gets dressed, and a bit of the tension goes out of her spine. His mobile was on _top_ of his clothes; surely, if there was any sign that she moved it, he would have seen it _before_ removing his clothes from the bag?

Still, she's holding her breath as the sounds stop—or at least become quiet enough that they're drowned out by the blood pounding in her ears. The seconds stretch out, and she's sure, absolutely _positive_, that at any moment he's going to—

"Jemma."

She very nearly jumps out of her skin. She opens her eyes and, praying that the panic she's feeling isn't written all over her, twists to face him. He doesn't look angry.

"What, did you fall asleep?" he teases. "I didn't take _that_ long."

"No," she says somewhat breathlessly. "Just…thinking."

"You can think in the car," he says. "Let's go. Get your shoes on and grab your bag."

"Yes," she says, standing. "Of course."

She slips her shoes on, then bends down to pick up the duffle bag that's been deemed hers, keeping her eyes on Ward. He picks up his mobile and slips it into his pocket without giving it more than a glance.

"You ready?" he asks her, picking up his own duffle.

She nods, not trusting her voice. She feels slightly dizzy from relief. He really didn't notice. She might not have managed to get word to SHIELD, but she also hasn't managed to get anyone in this hotel killed. She'll take that as a victory.

She follows him out of the room and into the early morning air. It's still dark outside, the car park lit with orange from the street lights, and it takes her a moment to realize that the truck they arrived in last night has been replaced by a black sedan. She doesn't know enough about cars to identify the model, but she recognizes the Audi symbol on the front grille.

"You like it?" Ward asks casually, pulling a key-ring out of his pocket and unlocking the doors remotely. "The truck was getting a little hot."

He comes to a stop next to the passenger side door and gives her an expectant look. She shakes off her surprise and obediently joins him at the car, passing him the duffle she's carrying when he holds out a hand. As he continues to the boot, she opens the door to find her handbag sitting on the passenger seat. She moves it to the footwell with a slight frown, not sure what to think of the fact that he remembered to move it from the truck when she had entirely forgotten about it.

She thinks, as she gets in the car and closes the door, that the way he's been alternating between considerate and menacing—apparently completely at random—is more than a little terrifying.

The change in vehicles, although it caught her off-guard, is very welcome. This car, after all, has a console between the front seats, so she can't be forced into physical contact with him the way she was yesterday. It's a sad commentary on the state of things that this is enough to brighten her day, but it really does.

"All right," Ward says, settling into the driver's seat. "Here we go."

He sounds so cheerful, so _happy_, and it grates on her. She just wants to shake him—or possibly hit him. He's kidnapped her, threatened her, threatened the lives of the people around them, and taunted her with the possibility of danger to the people she loves. She's spent the past seventeen hours scared out of her mind, and he's loved every moment of it.

She just…_hates_ him. She's spent seven months hating him. Sooner or later, that has to stop hurting.

Doesn't it?

"So," Ward says, as he turns out onto the street. "What do you want for breakfast? McDonald's? Sonic?" He smiles a little as they pass a food truck parked on the side of the road. "Tacos?"

"I'm not hungry," she says. Her stomach is still twisted up in knots.

"You didn't touch your dinner last night," he reminds her. "You need to eat. Keep your strength up. So, again: what do you want for breakfast?"

There's a warning in his tone, a suggestion that further refusal will result in consequences, and she sighs. She's really not certain that she'll be able to eat anything, but she needs to pick her battles with him. Breakfast is _not_ the hill to die on.

"McDonald's, then," she says. Perhaps she can stomach some oatmeal.

"McDonald's it is," he agrees. It's just ahead on the left, and he changes lanes as he continues, "Now, was that so hard?"

She looks away, out the window. It's a little after six, and the streets are full of cars—full of people going about their lives. This is a small town, like her own, and looking at the early morning traffic sends an unexpected pang through her. She should be getting ready for work right now, showering and dressing while the local news plays in the background. The news runs on a regular schedule; at this exact moment, back at home, Alison Steele (whose daughter Leslie is in Jemma's physics class) will be giving the weather.

It's funny; she spent so long feeling out of place in Bonnet Hill—feeling as though she were merely going through the motions, surviving but not engaging, content but not happy. Now, she'd do anything to be back there.

She wonders if she ever _will_ make it home. She wonders if there's any way for her to make it out of this situation alive.

x

For some reason, the silence is even harder to bear, today. Yesterday it was oppressive. Today, it's torturous. Her mind goes in terrible circles: from how _good _she felt when she woke up to the chance to contact SHIELD that she didn't take to the looming question of what happens next to the threat he poses to _everyone_ and back again.

She doesn't want to speak to him. She really, really doesn't. It can only end in tears, and she's shed enough of those already. The only thing conversation with Ward will accomplish is hurting her—yesterday proved that.

And yet, she still finds herself tempted. The silence is driving her slowly mad, and more than once she has to force herself to swallow down the words she wants to speak. It's not even that she has anything in particular to say to him (well, nothing that she'd risk, at least)—it's just that _anything_ would be better than the silence.

Except that's really not true, and she knows it. There are plenty of things worse than silence, and she's afraid of inviting them. So she bites her tongue and stares out the window and tries her best to slow her mind.

It's not easy. In fact, it's mostly ineffective. Long after she's choked down half of her oatmeal, long after they've left the town where they spent the night (the name of which she never learnt) behind them, long after the sun has risen, the silence continues to bore at her, and the temptation to speak to him builds.

She manages to resist it for five hours.

x

Around eleven, Ward gets a phone call. He speaks briefly with the caller (in Arabic), then rings off and makes a call of his own (in Russian). That one is a little longer, and by the time he rings off he's smiling broadly.

"Right on schedule," he tells her cheerfully. "Coulson's gift is on its way."

She's spent a good portion of the last five hours trying _not_ to think of this mysterious gift—or, more precisely, trying not to think of the fact that she had a chance to warn the team and didn't take it. The reminder is unpleasant.

Ward seems content to leave it at that, but—after having a few wonderful moments of distraction, courtesy of those two phone calls—she can't bear to return to silence. She _tries_ to—tries to turn back to the window and remind herself of how badly conversation is likely to end—but the words slip out before she can stop them.

"What are we doing?"

Now she wishes she _had_ planned to speak, because if she had, she would have been able to choose a better topic. This is one of the other things she's been trying to avoid thinking about, and actually bringing it up for conversation is _not_ an effective way to do so.

Ward gives her a sideways glance, then gestures pointedly out the windshield, toward the road. "Driving."

"Yes, obviously," she says. In for a penny—she's started, so she might as well finish. "But _why_? All you've said is that you think it's time I met your brother. What _exactly_ do you intend to do once we reach him?" She pauses. "And do you _honestly_ intend to drive the whole way to Washington?"

"As to your second question, no," he says, and she has a brief moment to be relieved before he continues, "We're driving to Massachusetts, not DC."

Well. That's depressing—though not unexpected, as they've left Arkansas behind and are now in Tennessee. Each passing exit has decreased what little hope she had left that their destination was an airport, so it's no great shock to hear that it's not.

Still—Massachusetts. That means they won't be finishing this road trip today and, depending on how far they get before he decides to stop for the night, possibly not even tomorrow. She's not sure she can stand it. She might _literally_ be insane by the time they arrive.

"And when we get there?" she asks.

Ward smiles to himself. It's not a reassuring sight. "Oh, I think we'll leave that part a surprise."

"I hate surprises," she says flatly.

"I know you do," he says, still with that little smile. "But trust me, you're gonna love this one."

Somehow, she rather doubts it.

She's not willing to push it, however. She thinks she might prefer the maddening silence to the overwhelming fear of whatever's coming next, so she looks back out the window and doesn't speak.

"So," he says. "Since you're in a chatty mood. You never answered my question yesterday: why Sarah?"

She sighs, reminding herself that she was the one who wanted the silence broken.

"King's College," she says finally.

"I don't follow," he says, frowning slightly.

"Sarah went to King's College London," she clarifies. "And I've been there. I took a lecture series there once, when I was a girl." She looks down at her hands and shrugs. "Of all the full identities I had available, Sarah's alma mater was the one with which I was most familiar. I thought, in case anyone asked any questions…"

"Right," he says. "You like to be prepared. I guess some things don't change." He gives her a sideways smile. "But some things do, don't they?"

Plenty has changed, as evidenced by the fact that she's been essentially kidnapped by a man who once swore to love and honor her, but she has the feeling that's not what he means.

"Such as?" she asks.

"You can lie now," he says. "That stock-boy at the convenience store, the kid you caught smoking…You were very convincing."

"I had motivation," she points out, a touch sullenly.

"True," he allows, with a self-satisfied smile. After a moment, it fades, and he gives her a thoughtful look. "What was your motivation when you told everyone I was dead?"

It catches her off guard. "What?"

"I was surprised when that secretary at your school spilled that story about me being killed in combat," he says. "I was expecting to hear you were in hiding from an abusive ex or something, not that you'd been tragically widowed."

"Ah."

"So?" he asks. "What was the motivation there?"

"I don't know," she admits. She looks out the window, at the dark clouds building on the horizon, and remembers sitting in Mrs. Fessler's office and lying for no real reason. "I had a story ready, when I moved there—messy divorce, ex-husband with a grudge, that sort of thing—but when the time came to share it…"

"When the time came to share it?" he prompts.

"I didn't," she says simply.

"Why not?"

She shakes her head. "I have no idea."

"No?" he asks. He sounds pleased, and she gives him a wary glance.

She hopes he isn't reading anything into her failure to portray him as a monster, but if the smug smile he's wearing is any indication, her hopes are in vain. She wonders if there's any point in trying to talk him out of it.

Probably not. Still, she might as well try.

"It doesn't mean anything," she says.

"Of course not," he agrees, but his tone suggests he's merely humoring her.

"It doesn't," she insists. "Just because it was easier to let people think of me as a widow than a survivor of some sort of cruelty…"

"Whatever you say, Jemma," he says.

He's clearly not convinced, and she has the horrible, sinking feeling that she's only made things worse for herself somehow. In that vein, further conversation will likely do more harm than good—but she's still not eager to resume their earlier, unbearable silence.

For lack of any better options, she leans forward and turns the radio on. Ward glances at her, but doesn't say anything as she scans through the static. She eventually lands on a local Top 40 station and sits back, content. It's not necessarily her _favorite_ sort of music, but working in a high school has given her a new appreciation for it.

And, in any case, it's much better than the alternatives of silence or conversation. She'd even take _opera_ over more of either.

x

Around three, Ward pulls off the highway and into a rest stop.

"Got some things to take care of," he says as he turns off the car. "Feel free to freshen up, stretch your legs, whatever."

She assumes he means that he has more plotting to do with his mysterious contacts, as she can't imagine there are many opportunities for nefarious deeds at a highway rest stop. Which is just as well; if he's not up to anything terrible, she won't feel the need to stop him, and therefore can take this lovely opportunity for some space without feeling (overly) guilty about it.

And she is in _desperate_ need of space. They've stopped twice since leaving their hotel this morning, to _stretch their legs_, as he put it, and both times he stuck very closely to her side—barely leaving her be long enough for her to use the restroom. His presence wears on her terribly, and if the situation weren't entirely his fault (and if she didn't hate him so much), she might just kiss him for the offer of time to herself.

As it is, she hurries to get out of the car before he changes his mind. Once she's closed the door, she leans against it for a moment, waiting for her legs to wake up a bit (the constant tension she's feeling has done nothing for her circulation) and looking around the rest stop.

There aren't many other cars—unsurprising, since it's a weekday afternoon—but there are a few. She assumes most of the owners of those cars are in the building off to the left, as there are only three people in sight—a man and a woman eating at a picnic table (brave of them; if the cumulonimbus clouds looming overhead are any indication, it will start storming any time now) and a woman digging through the boot of her car.

It gives her a thought.

She pushes away from the car and rounds the hood, intending to head for the restrooms (which she presumes are in the aforementioned building), but she doesn't make it far. Ward is leaning on the other side of the car, and as she passes him he reaches out and grabs her arm. She stops, and he gives a sharp tug, pulling her closer.

"Don't," he says lowly.

"Don't what?" she asks, then winces as his grip on her arm tightens painfully. "You just said I could—"

"Don't do anything _stupid_," he interrupts. "Whatever you just thought of—whatever plan you just came up with—don't do it."

"I didn't—"

"You did," he says. "It's written all over your face. And I'm telling you, don't do it. Because if you do, I'm going to have to take action. And a slaughter at a rest stop will draw exactly the kind of attention I _don't_ want."

"Okay," she says, raising a placating hand. "Okay, I won't. I won't do anything. It was just—a thought."

Ward's eyes search hers, and she hopes he can read her sincerity as well as he read her earlier thought. She resolved yesterday not to try anything, and she'll keep to that. Even though she's spent all day agonizing over the phone call she didn't make, she knows it was the right decision, and his use of the word _slaughter_ is the perfect reminder of why.

She can't risk anything. Not with him.

Perhaps he _can_ read her sincerity; he nods once and loosens his grip on her arm, but doesn't let go.

"I'm getting really tired of repeating the same threats over and over again," he warns, and for some reason, it sparks anger rather than fear.

"Then _stop making them_," she hisses, and yanks her arm away.

Her anger carries her nearly half-way across the car park, at which point fear makes a (belated) reappearance. She shouldn't snap at him. She knows that. She can't risk provoking him.

Thus far, he's been remarkably well-behaved—for a psychotic murderer, that is. He hasn't harmed her or, indeed, anyone else. He's limited himself to threats (and—obviously—kidnapping), and the last thing she wants is to push him into actual action. Fear, in this case, is better than anger. She needs to keep herself under control and do her best to avoid aggravating him.

It's the only sensible course of action, but does it _ever_ rub her the wrong way. It's not in Jemma's nature to be docile—to _cower_ like a scared child confronted with a monster. SHIELD may have crumbled, and she may have left its remnants, but she is still a SHIELD agent and it is her _duty_ to protect the general populace from threats both alien and terrestrial.

Unfortunately, in this case, the only way to deal with the threat is to placate it. She can't over-power Ward—the very thought is laughable—and thus she must outsmart him. But he'll be watching for that, of course, so she needs to wait. She needs to bide her time, lull him into a false sense of security. His arrogance will be his downfall eventually. All she needs is patience.

No matter how much she hates it, she _must_ allow her fear to outweigh her anger. Lives depend on it. In the meantime, cowering is (unfortunately) not exactly a challenge. She's genuinely terrified of him, and for good reason.

But she's nearly as sick of cowering as she is of him, so she lingers in the restroom for a long while. She washes her hands four times, splashes some water on her face, and then washes them again. Other women come and go, but this is a very large rest stop and there are eight other sinks, so she doesn't feel badly about monopolizing this one.

Washing her hands can only keep her distracted for so long, however. After the seventh or eighth time, she sighs and turns off the faucet. She takes her time drying her hands and, when she's finished that, checks her hair in the mirror.

It's a touch frizzy, having been left to air dry, so she lets it out of its clip and runs her fingers through it. It helps about as much as she was expecting it to (which is to say, not at all), and she drops the clip on the counter with a sigh.

Her handbag (which she was almost surprised to find herself holding when she reached the restroom; she has no memory of grabbing it before she got out of the car) is sitting next to the sink, and she picks it up to rifle through it.

She doesn't care about her hair _or_ her handbag. It's just an excellent excuse to delay returning to Ward's side.

She throws away the empty bag which held the trail mix that served as her lunch a few hours ago (purchased yesterday from a cashier who had no idea just how close he and Kyle the stock-boy came to death), as well as a few receipts (because what use are they?) and half a pack of gum (which, after a moment of befuddlement, she recalls confiscating from one of her students yesterday morning).

Then she starts rifling through what's left (a lot; Jemma—or Sarah, rather—is a bit of a pack-rat, it must be said).

As she's doing so, a woman carrying a little girl approaches the sink next to her. The little girl is keeping up a steady stream of chatter in Spanish, to which the woman replies with the occasional absent _mmhm_ as she first helps the little girl wash her hands, then sets her on the counter so she can wash her own, and at first Jemma doesn't pay them much mind.

She gradually realizes, however, that the woman is darting little glances at her, and she sets her handbag down slowly.

"Sorry," the woman says, as she throws her paper towels away. "I'm staring, I know. Rude. Um…I'm Inez, and this chatterbox," she pats her daughter's head, "Is Mariella."

"Jemma," she returns without thought—which is odd after so many months of being someone else, but to be fair, she's never felt _less_ like Sarah. "Nice to meet you. Did you need something?"

"Actually," Inez says. "I was gonna ask you the same thing." She bites her lip and leans in a bit, lowering her voice slightly. "Do you need help?"

Jemma stares at her, surprised. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's just, I saw you arguing with your…" Her eyes flicker to Jemma's wedding ring, currently resting on the counter next to the sink. "Husband? Or whoever he is, outside. And it just—looked a little tense. So I thought I'd ask. Do you need help? Police, or a ride, or-or anything?"

For a moment, she's tempted. She's _more_ than tempted. Because this is the thought she had earlier: that if Ward intended to leave her to her own devices for a while, she could summon help. She could call SHIELD: on someone else's phone, so he wouldn't know, here in the ladies' room, where he can't interrupt. She doesn't even have to make the call herself; she could ask Inez to make the call as soon as she leaves, so there's no risk of Ward hurting her for it if he does somehow find out.

There's no way the team could get here in time, but she knows roughly where Ward is headed. The team could meet them there or intercept them along the way, and this nightmare could end. She could go _home_.

So, yes. For a moment, she's tempted.

But common sense overcomes temptation. There's a reason she resolved, earlier, not to take action, and just because Ward won't be able to interrupt them here doesn't mean he wouldn't know if she did something. He reads her so easily; he saw this thought on her face as soon as she had it, and she can't imagine she would hide the truth of having actually gone through with it any better. He would know what she'd done as soon as she walked out of the ladies' room, and Inez would pay the price.

So she shakes her head and gives Inez her best smile.

"It's very kind of you to ask," she says. "But no, thank you. I'm fine."

Inez doesn't look convinced. Jemma thinks quickly, reaching for a plausible explanation, and decides that something somewhat close to the truth would be best—since, as has been repeatedly established, she is not the most talented of liars.

"Things _are_ slightly tense, I admit," she sighs, picking up her ring and slipping it back on her finger. "As it happens, a road trip makes for a very poor honeymoon." She laughs a little. "We should have gone with Paris."

"Ah," Inez laughs. "I get you. He won't ask for directions?"

"He won't ask for directions, he won't stop for lunch," Jemma shakes her head. "And he's spent the whole time on his mobile." She gives Inez a sheepish smile. "I have to admit, I did—well—provoke him a bit, earlier. But at least it got him talking to _me_ instead of his business partners."

Inez whistles. "Can't blame you for picking a fight if he's spending your honeymoon on the phone. Lame."

"Quite," she agrees. Her lie is working well, and she needs to make her excuses and leave, before it falls apart. "Still, it was childish of me. As is hiding in the ladies' room, which I've been doing for…far longer than I'd care to admit."

"Hey, no judgment here," Inez says. "Last time I saw this one's father I burned his dinner on purpose because he insulted my mom." She shrugs. "Men, right?"

"Right," she says, and sighs. She picks up her clip from the counter, clips back her hair, and slings her handbag over her shoulder. "I suppose I might as well face the music." She starts to step away, then pauses and lays a hand on Inez's arm. "But thank you, really. It was very kind of you to offer help."

She shrugs. "I'm just glad you don't need it. Enjoy the rest of your honeymoon."

"I'll do my best," she says, and walks away.

As she pushes the door open, she hears Inez address Mariella (who spent the entirety of that conversation talking to herself, apparently unconcerned by her mother's inattention) in Spanish. Jemma doesn't understand the words, obviously, but the tone is light and playful, and it causes her an unexpected pang.

She doesn't know why. It just…does.

She shakes it off as she heads out of the building. She pauses just outside, looking around the rest area, and eventually spots Ward over by the hiking trail, sitting on the back of a bench with his feet resting on the seat. For a moment she gives thought to going back inside (there are vending machines and a display about some local landmark; she's sure she could kill at least fifteen minutes), but he catches her eye and waves her over before she has the chance.

So, with a sigh, she steels herself and crosses the grass to join him. When she reaches him, he gives her a long stare—as though he knows every word she just shared with Inez—and then smiles.

"Have a seat," he invites, nodding at the bench. "I have another call to make. Might take a while."

_Another_ call? She's been gone for at least half an hour; exactly how many people is he in contact with? She toys with the idea of asking, but—remembering how all of their conversations thus far have gone—decides against it, and sits down without a word.

She sits, of course, at the very end of the bench—as far from him as possible, not that that's very far. (It's not a large bench.) Ward smirks, but leaves her be as he dials a number and brings his phone to his ear.

Thus far, all of Ward's phone calls (with the notable exception of those few sentences at the hotel this morning) have been held in languages she doesn't speak. Which is why it comes as a shock that his words are in English.

Of course, the choice of language isn't nearly so much of a shock as the words themselves.

"Hey, Skye," Ward says, and Jemma turns so quickly to face him that she nearly falls right off the bench. He gives her a little wink and brings his finger to his lips to silence her before she can speak. "So you got my present okay?"

From this distance, she can't hear Skye's response. Before she can think better of it, she slides closer. Ward grins at her, amused.

"Sorry to miss it," he says. "I would've been there if I could. Unfortunately, I had other things to take care of." He gives her another wink, then adds, "Jemma says hi, by the way."

Jemma still isn't close enough; she can hear Skye's voice, but not well enough to understand what she actually says. Whatever it is, it makes Ward's grin widen in response, and she barely resists the urge to either snatch the phone from his hand or shout something (anything) loudly enough for Skye to hear. However, resist she does; she doesn't need the firm, warning squeeze Ward gives her shoulder to know how taking either action would end.

"She can't talk right now," he says regretfully, without moving his hand. "She's a little…tied up, at the moment."

His tone is clearly meant to imply that she's _literally _tied up, and she narrows her eyes at him. He raises an eyebrow in return.

He's testing Skye, she realizes, the same way he tested her this morning at the hotel. He wants to see how Skye will react to the implication that he's being cruel to her. (Not to say that he isn't, but at least she's not been restrained.)

"There's no need for threats," he says, mildly, which suggests that Skye has reacted to the test somewhat more violently than Jemma did to hers. "Jemma's fine. We've been having lots of fun together—haven't we, Jem?"

He squeezes her shoulder.

"That's one word for it," she mutters, and turns away to face the hiking trail again. She can't stand the grin on his face—how it amuses him to torment her like this, dangling a connection to her team right in front of her with no intention of letting her use it—and if she can't wipe it off his face (though she'd dearly love to), she can at least not look.

"See?" Ward asks, as though she's spoken directly to Skye. "All good. But enough about us. How are you? How'd you guys do against HYDRA—any casualties?"

Jemma holds her breath. Of course, even if the team did take casualties, Skye is hardly likely to tell Ward about it. But—still. She worries.

"Actually, I'm not disappointed at all," he says, and only hearing half of this conversation might just be the final straw for Jemma's sanity, because it is _maddening_. "I'm glad to hear it. You're my team; I don't want anything to happen to you."

He almost sounds sincere, but she can't be bothered by whatever game he's playing now, because it sounds as though the team made it through his little _gift_ undamaged. It's more than a relief.

He trades a few more quips with Skye—something about Coulson and not forgetting a conversation they had—as well making a few more insinuations about Jemma's current state, but she's only half listening. He doesn't say anything that could be considered important—he offers no clues to Skye as to where they're headed or what he plans to do when they get there, and he says nothing about what will happen when he's finished the current errand—so she allows her attention to drift.

She spots Inez exiting the building (with Mariella clinging to her neck like a monkey) and gives her a wave. Inez waves back, then jerks her chin at Ward, bringing her hand up next to her ear in a motion that clearly conveys the question _is he seriously _still_ on the phone?_

She shrugs in a manner that she hopes projects exasperation, and Inez shakes her head as she heads for the car park. She's obviously been left with the impression that Ward is an inattentive and inconsiderate husband, but nothing more. It's a victory—exactly what Jemma wanted her to think—but a hollow one.

She's watching Inez buckle a squirming Mariella into her car seat when Ward moves, shifting from sitting on the back of the bench to sitting properly next to her. She starts to slide away, but he slings an arm around her shoulders, holding her in place.

"So," he says. "What did you say to her?"

Having expected a taunt related to Skye, she's caught off-balance by the question. "I'm sorry?"

"That woman," he says, and flicks two fingers of the hand attached to the arm he has draped over her shoulders in the direction of Inez's car, currently reversing out of its parking spot. "I saw how she was looking at me earlier. You wanna talk about _if looks could kill_…" He laughs, a little. "I thought I'd have to cross her off to keep her from calling 911 on suspicion alone. But that just now—that was only solidarity. She felt bad for you—men are bastards, right?—but she wasn't worried. So. What did you say to convince her you weren't in danger?"

As though she needed more evidence that she made the correct decision in declining Inez's offer of assistance. That he noticed so much about her, from across the car park and while otherwise occupied…

She was right. Had she told Inez that she was in danger, he would have known instantly.

"Jemma."

"I told her we were on a road trip," she says, and twists her ring on her finger. "Our honeymoon. I said you've spent the whole time on the phone and I picked a fight to get you talking to me."

She can feel his eyes on her, but she keeps hers on her ring. She doesn't want to know what expression he's wearing right now—what he thinks of her lie, or even of the fact that she lied at all.

"That was smart," he says eventually, and presses a kiss to her temple. She tenses, and he smiles against her skin. "Don't look so miserable, Jem. You should be happy; you saved her life." He sits back against the bench. "Not to mention her little girl's."

She closes her eyes. After everything, it shouldn't be a surprise—in the face of all he's done, what's a threat against the life of a child?—and it certainly shouldn't hurt her, but—somehow—it is and it does.

She tries not to think of _before_, of late-night conversations about their future and the confessions he made under the cover of darkness—his fear that his own childhood would make him a bad parent, put at risk any child they had together—but she can't help it.

She remembers the way she attempted to reassure him—the promises she made and the encouragement she offered—and feels sick at how easily she was fooled.

It hasn't stopped hurting yet. Maybe it never will.

"Cheer up," Ward says, and removes his arm from her shoulders to pat her thigh. "Like I said, you saved her."

He stands and holds out a hand. She hesitates but, reminding herself that she doesn't want to aggravate him, eventually places her hand in his. He laces their fingers and pulls her to her feet, and she doesn't know what's worse: the way it makes her skin crawl or the fact that their hands still fit together so perfectly.

She really wishes he'd stop touching her.

"Come on," he says. "We're done here."

x

It starts to rain perhaps ten minutes after they leave the rest stop, and the storm follows them (or they follow the storm, either one) for hours. Jemma doesn't mind; at least the thunder, lightning, and pouring rain give her something other than her own misery to focus on.

Ward, on the other hand, is clearly not pleased by the weather. Or, to be more accurate, the way the weather affects traffic. He doesn't say much—aside from the occasional muttered curse when someone cuts them off or slams on the breaks or otherwise slows him down—but his expression becomes increasingly severe as the hours pass.

About four hours after they leave the rest stop, he gives up.

("I wanted to get farther today," he says, in a conversational tone completely belied by his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. "But I might just shoot the next person who changes lanes without _fucking signaling_, and that would be completely counter-productive. So. We're stopping for the night. Objections?"

A few, actually, but she doesn't dare voice them while he's wearing that face. She shakes her head.)

After a very uncomfortable dinner at the Denny's next to the hotel he chooses, he gets them a room, carries their bags inside, and then disappears out the door with a curt _errands_ when she (reluctantly) asks where he's going.

It's not that she wants him to stay. In fact, that he's left her alone is a huge relief. But not knowing what he's up to worries her. All of his phone calls and errands—he's planning something, and she has no idea what.

And not for a second does she believe that he arranged for SHIELD to capture another HYDRA agent out of the goodness of his heart.

Still, short of chasing after him (which is almost certain to end badly), there's nothing she can do about it. She drops on to one of the beds and pulls off her shoes, then—feeling childish and sulky—throws one of them at the door. It hits with a satisfying _thunk_, then bounces off it to land smack in the middle of the entry way.

She hopes he trips over it and breaks his neck.

It's still storming out, and her clothes are damp from the dash from the car to the restaurant and then the hotel. She doesn't plan on sleeping tonight—not after what happened last night—but she doesn't want to spend all night in wet clothes, either, so she changes quickly into some pajamas. Then she sits back down on the bed and turns on the television, because any longer left alone with her thoughts and she'll be throwing more than just shoes.

She watches the weather channel long enough to determine that the rain will likely follow them all the way to Massachusetts, then surfs through the channels until she finds one holding a marathon of children's Halloween films. They're not particularly gripping, but they're something to watch, and at least they're not likely to depress her (any more than she already is, at least).

The chill in the room (for which she is, admittedly, partially to blame; a vest top and sleep shorts were poor choices in clothing) drives her under the covers five minutes into the first film, but she's still not intending to sleep.

Unfortunately, between her nightmare last night and her complete lack of sleep the night before—not to mention the constant state of terrified awareness she's maintained for the past two days—exhaustion is wearing her down, and despite her best efforts, she dozes off halfway through _It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown_.

x

It's so hard to move. The surface is so far above her and her lungs burn for air and she knows she needs to keep swimming—_keep swimming_—but the water is so cold and she's so tired and Fitz is heavy, more (not dead, please not dead) weight pulling her down. But she has to keep swimming because the alternative is unthinkable, so she swims and she swims and she _fights_ the exhaustion that tries to overwhelm her—

But the surface never gets any closer—

And Fitz wakes up and starts fighting, trying to get back to the pod—he wants the heroic death that she's denied him—he's pulling her back down—

And she _can't breathe_—

Then there are warm arms around her and a voice in her ear that says it's just a dream, and for a moment she relaxes, because Grant has her and she knows she's safe. Except he keeps talking and she connects his voice to _have it your way_ and _have it your way_ to the press of the button that sent her to the bottom of the ocean in the first place, and suddenly breathing is a struggle again.

Memories filter in, the truth of the man holding her hitting her right in the throat, and she shoves him away and scrambles off the bed.

"Not this again," Ward sighs before she can speak. "You were having a nightmare, I calmed you down, you're welcome."

"I'm not thanking you," she snaps, because the memory of her terror is far too fresh for her to be anything but furious. "You need to stop_ doing that_."

"What?" he asks, and sits up. He leans over to turn on the bedside lamp, then continues, in a voice so infuriatingly calm that her anger nearly triples. "Comforting you? You were having a nightmare—"

"Because of _you_!" she interrupts. "Because of what you _did_ to us! I wouldn't need comfort if you hadn't hurt me in the first place!"

He sighs again, like she's being completely unreasonable, and shifts to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over the side and propping his elbows on his knees. He looks so relaxed—so completely at ease—like her entirely justified anger is nothing more than a mild snit, and she _hates_ him with an almost startling passion.

"And what did I do?" he asks.

"You betrayed us, you killed people, you kidnapped Skye," she lists, voice rising. "You helped the enemy work against SHIELD, you served HYDRA, and you _dropped us out of the Bus and nearly killed us_!" Even saying it hurts, because it's been _months_ since she and Fitz were an _us_—and that's one more thing she can lay on Ward's shoulders, though she doesn't dare voice it. "Take your pick! Everything you did—"

"Is on HYDRA," he interrupts, and she sputters, train of thought derailed. "And I was never loyal to them. I served John—_he_ was serving HYDRA. I followed orders. That's all."

"You think that makes a _difference_?" she demands, incredulous.

"Everything I've done," he says, still in that maddeningly calm voice. "I did because I was ordered to."

"No!" she snaps. "No, you didn't!" He starts to speak, and she shakes her head sharply. "Even if we put aside the fact that you are actually, unironically using the bloody _Nuremberg defense_ and expecting me to accept it—even if we pretend that acting under orders makes what you did excusable—which it bloody _doesn't_—that still leaves a major problem!"

"And what would that be?" he asks mildly.

"This!" she exclaims, throwing a hand out to indicate the room. "No one ordered you to abduct me, Grant! John is dead, you've burnt your bridges with SHIELD, and you claim not to be loyal to HYDRA. Which means you're not taking orders from _anyone_ anymore, and that tells me that you _chose_ this."

He's watching her with a blank face, and perversely, it angers her even more than derision or annoyance would have. She crosses her arms over her stomach, because otherwise she might honestly strike him—just to get that awful _nothing_ off of his face.

"You got away clean," she says, a little quieter. "Once you escaped custody, you were free. You have _dozens_ of identities I don't know about—millions of dollars stashed away. You could have disappeared. You could have started over. Instead, you came after me. You took me away from my life and you're dragging me across the country to do who knows _what_ to your brother." She takes a deep breath. Her anger is deserting her, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. "No one ordered you to do this. You could've got away, but you _chose_ not to. You _chose_ revenge over escape."

He's silent for a long moment. "Are you done?"

Is she? There's plenty more she'd like to say to him—words that have been building up for _months_. But what's the point? It won't change anything. She could spend the rest of her life shouting at him and he would _never_ feel guilty for what he's done. He genuinely believes that he hasn't done anything wrong, that the fact that he was under orders excuses his actions.

(Or at least, he's putting on an excellent show of genuinely believing it. When it comes to him, it's impossible to know what's real and what's not.)

With her anger fading, she once again recalls that she's meant not to be aggravating him. Shouting at him—calling him out on his pitiful excuses—is not a good way to keep him happy. Saying anything more would be not only pointless, but dangerous.

"Yes," she says quietly, and hugs herself a little tighter. "I suppose I am."

"Good," he says, and stands. He closes the distance between them in a few short strides, looming over her in a threat at odds with the almost gentle expression he's wearing. "Then I'd like to talk about _your _choices."

"My—"

"You chose to run," he says. "To _abandon_ SHIELD—abandon your friends—and start a new life. You think that's any better than what I did?"

"I didn't _abandon_…" she starts, but is interrupted when he presses his finger to her lips.

"No," he says, as she backs away. He matches her, closing the distance between them once more, but makes no move to touch her again. "You've had your say, now I'm going to have mine." He smiles grimly. "You _abandoned_ the team, Jemma. You spent seven months in hiding, playing teacher, and all the while your friends were in danger. They could've died a thousand times and you never would've known it. You weren't there. When they were injured, when they needed a doctor or a biochemist or someone who could handle Fitz—you weren't there."

She swallows.

"The day I escaped," he continues. "I waited until I was transferred into FBI custody. But I could've done it earlier." He shakes his head. "They didn't sedate me, you know. I guess Coulson really did buy my broken act, because he barely even _tried_. They slapped some shackles on me, called me secure, and let me walk out of my cell under my own power. They walked me through the base."

He steps even closer to her, close enough that her arms (still crossed over her stomach) brush against his abdomen. She wants to move back, to put distance between them, but she's frozen in place by his words.

"I could have escaped," he says. "I could have killed every single one of them. Skye, Coulson, Trip. Fitz. I could've crossed them all off before Trip even had a chance to draw his sidearm." He raises a hand to smooth some of her hair away from her face, touch disturbingly tender. "I could have killed them all, and you never would have known it, because _you weren't there_."

"Why didn't you?" she asks, and hates herself for the distinct quaver in her voice.

"Seven months spent locked in a cage," he muses, and his hand falls to her shoulder. "Death is too quick. I want them to suffer." He smirks a little. "Do you think any of them are sleeping? Knowing that I'm free, and that I've got you? My poor, _defenseless_ wife…" His thumb brushes back and forth along the bare skin of her collar bone, and it sends a shiver down her spine. "I could be doing _anything _right now, and they've got no idea where we are and no way to stop me."

She has to swallow before she can speak. "Is that why I'm here? To hurt the others?"

"No," he says. "No, I've got plans, and you're a big part of them. Hurting Coulson and the team, that's just a bonus. And it wouldn't be possible if you'd stayed with SHIELD—under their protection. So I guess I should thank you for running."

Something like shame burns in her chest, which is ridiculous. She has nothing to be ashamed of. She had every right to leave—to see to her own mental and emotional well-being by removing herself from a situation that was nothing but pain. She knows she did.

And even if she didn't—even if it was the wrong thing to do—running away from SHIELD is nothing like what he's done. Her single crime (if it is a crime) is nowhere near the severity of his multitudes. He's murdered countless people, ruined countless lives. He killed for HYDRA and helped Centipede conduct human experimentation—and was at least party to, if not actively involved in, the Incentives program, which forced good people to do horrible, horrible things.

For goodness' sake, he's standing here telling her that he intends to make her team _suffer_ because death is too quick! She's nothing like him.

"I'm nothing like you," she whispers.

"Sorry, what was that?" he asks. He's wearing a look of innocent confusion, but the distinctly mocking edge to his voice tells her he understood her perfectly.

He's so amused by all of this, isn't he? Her fear of him, her anger, her disgust—it's all just a joke. He's enjoying it. And that—it hurts. Of course it hurts. Ward once had to be talked out of inflicting harm to a superior officer in retaliation for Jemma's emotional distress—that he now takes such visible pleasure in causing it…

Yes. It hurts. But it's also infuriating, and anger is so much better than pain.

"I said, I'm nothing like you," she repeats, louder. "Leaving SHIELD was nothing like betraying it, and we both know it. Whatever game you're playing right now—whatever you're trying to accomplish—it's not going to work."

"No?" he asks.

"No."

For a moment, his grip on her shoulder tightens painfully, and she wonders if she's pushed him too far. For a genius, she certainly is having difficulty with the concept of not provoking him—but then, he's so difficult to predict; it's hard to know what will anger him.

But then he laughs and releases her, dropping his hand back to his side. He makes no move to follow when she takes two stumbling steps back, so she retreats even farther, putting the other bed between them.

"I think it will," he says, and it takes her a second to remember what they were talking about. Her heart is pounding almost painfully in her chest, and it's difficult to focus. "I'm just getting started, and I've got a lot more practice at this than you do. You're not gonna win this one, Jem."

"I am," she insists. She doesn't even know what they're talking about, not really, but it doesn't matter. She's seen what he's capable of; she doesn't _need_ to know what sort of game he's playing to know that she can't let him win. "Your experience doesn't matter. I'm smarter than you are."

"Yeah," he acknowledges easily. "But you're also weaker, and I don't mean physically." He turns away from her, crossing the room to unzip the duffle bag resting next to the television stand. He rifles through it as he continues, "The most important thing John ever taught me was that attachments are weakness. It's why I don't have many. But you—you're just full of them. You're attached. To SHIELD, to the team—even to me, a little. And…"

He turns to face her again, and the argument she planned to offer sticks in her throat at the look on his face. He's building up to something. That can't be good.

"You're attached to everything," he says. "Every_one_. The waitress at Denny's. The man at the front desk. The family of five sleeping in the room next door. You put value on every life you encounter, and that's why you're weak. That's why you can't beat me."

"You're wrong," she says quietly. It's all she can really manage. "Attachments aren't weakness. They're strength."

He makes a noncommittal noise, then smiles. "How about a demonstration? It's the middle of the night. I've been driving all day. I'd like to sleep. But if we go back to sleep, you're going to wake me up with nightmares again. It's annoying. So, you've got two options. You can either accept that you sleep better when I'm with you and share a bed with me or," he pitches something across the room at her, and she fumbles to catch it. She realizes, when she does, that it's a pill bottle, and blinks down at the label. Estazolam. "You can take two of these. They'll knock you right out."

"I…"

"What's it going to be?" he prompts. "Pills or cuddling? Personally, I prefer the cuddling, but either way you'll be quiet, so I'll be able to sleep."

"I—neither," she finally manages. "I'm not going to take a drug I know nothing about and I'm _certainly_ not sharing a bed with you. I'd rather die."

"I thought you'd say that," he says, and nods contemplatively. "That's where the demonstration comes in." He reaches into his duffle bag again, and she backs up against the door when he draws out a gun.

It makes him laugh.

"This isn't for you," he tells her. "Or not directly, at least. Call it…motivation."

"Motivation?"

"I've given you your options," he says. "You're going to choose one. And if you don't—if you continue to refuse—I'm going to take this gun to the room next door and kill everyone inside."

She stares at him, speechless.

"And you're not gonna let that happen," he concludes smugly. "Because you're attached to human life, and it makes you weak. To save the lives of strangers? You'd let me do just about anything."

It's true.

She's stuck. She can tell his threat isn't idle; if she refuses to make a choice, he'll kill the people in the next room. Innocent civilians who have done nothing to deserve death—whose only crime was choosing to stay at the same hotel as a murderer.

She saw them as she and Ward arrived: a man, a woman, and three children—two of them under the age of ten and one still an infant. He says he'll kill them all, and she believes him. She can't let that happen.

But she also can't share a bed with him. He's spent all day touching her, and it makes her skin crawl every time. Actually climbing into bed with him would be a hundred times worse—to say nothing of how painful it is, how reminiscent of what she's lost.

And, of course, taking a drug of which she knows nothing but the name—and even that might be false; there's no guarantee that this is the original bottle—is beyond stupid.

There are no good options here.

"So?" he asks. "Pills or cuddling—what'll it be?"

She doesn't have a choice, really.

She shakes two pills out of the bottle and dry swallows them. Then she closes the bottle and throws it at him as hard as she can. He snatches it right of the air and drops it into his bag with a laugh.

"And that," he says, smugly, "Is exactly why I'll win."

* * *

><p>AN: PSA: It probably goes without saying, but please don't take strange pills. Jemma was kind of backed into a corner, but it's a really bad move to take pills you know nothing about, especially from the hands of a psychopath.

Just saying.


End file.
